


to see God in the skyline

by stelleappese



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Abusive Parents, Antisemitism, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood, Classism, Depersonalization, Disassociation, Homophobia, M/M, Misgendering, Murder, Sexual Harassment, Underage Kissing, Violence, Xenophobia, and/or - Freeform, i guess it could count as, mentions of corporal punishment, suggested dub-con, underage cuddling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-21 00:45:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 37,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11346513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stelleappese/pseuds/stelleappese
Summary: The story of two immigrant boys as they meet and grow up in New York City.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a wild ride for me, so any and all comments/criticism/suggestions are more than welcome. I'll add the tags as I go.
> 
> There's some Neapolitan and Sicilian in this first chapter. I tried to make what was being said clear, but if I failed, let me know. Also, I'm neither Neapolitan nor Sicilian, so sorry if I butchered anybody's dialect lol
> 
> Edit: Of course, this is set *very* early, so Charlie will be Salvatore for a while.
> 
> Warnings: Violence, blood, xenophobia/classism.

There's a clock ticking somewhere, underlining the thick silence as the teacher stares at Salvatore, rhythmically tapping a wooden ruler against the palm of her hand in a quiet threat. Her jaw is set, her eyes hard as steel. She looks down at Salvatore, and he feels even tinier than he actually is.

Salvatore may not speak English yet, but he recognize the annoyance on her face, the judgment, the hostility. He recognizes; he doesn't understand.  
She's a grownup. How can she expect to shame Salvatore into instantly learning a whole new language? Hell, she doesn't even know how to pronounce his _name_  right, she cuts the 'e' at the end of it, makes the accent fall on the wrong letter when saying his last name, and _he_  is somehow expected to answer to her questions just like that?

After letting the wait stretch uncomfortably long, she smiles humorlessly at him, says something sharp that makes most of the other children laugh at Salvatore, then steps away. His face is burning, his eyes sting. He tells himself it doesn't matter, she doesn't matter, but the mere fact he has to sit there, his own language as a barrier wrapped all around him, makes Salvatore feel like he's suffocating.

He rests his chin on his hand, looks away from the teacher scribbling on the blackboard. It was drizzling as Salvatore walked to school, earlier, but now the clouds have parted and the sun is shining. He looks at the pigeons cooing lazily under the eaves, at the women leaning out of the windows of the opposite building to chat while they hang freshly washed clothes to dry. One of them, a plump, black-haired woman, throws her head back when she laughs, and it seems to Salvatore she's shining brighter than the anemic New York sun.

He doesn't mind it, really, how cold New York is. He never really enjoyed the brutal Sicilian sun, hot enough, people back in Lercara Friddi used to say, to break rocks. If he has to be honest, he doesn't miss much about Sicily. Doesn't miss the arid fields around his town, the sun-baked, split earth, the burnt up yellow grass. Doesn't miss the misery, the stench of sulfur. Maybe people up in Palermo have something to miss, but he sure as hell doesn't.

The women have finished hanging clothes, and they're now just chatting. One of them says something that makes both of them laugh.

When he first set foot in New York, when he _really_  set foot in New York, Salvatore was overwhelmed. He considered himself a man, or close enough. Kids his age have already been working in the mine for a few years, back home. Still, he clung to his mother's leg and had to keep his eyes fixed to the ground: if he looked up at the tall buildings, his head started spinning.  
He walked through crowded streets feeling as if he never disembarked the ship that brought them to America, as if he were still suspended in the middle of the ocean. That night, he slept sandwiched between his brothers, his heart speeding up with every person yelling in the neighboring tenements, with every child crying, every bottle breaking in the street, and felt so utterly, impossibly small.

It didn't last long.

As soon as the sun was up, as soon as Salvatore had the chance to start wandering, Manhattan stopped feeling like a maze and turned into a playground.

You can walk from one side of Lercara Friddi to the other in less than two hours. By the time you're old enough to start working in the mines, there's nothing left to see. But here in Manhattan, Salvatore feels like he will never run out of things to see, places to explore. So many people, so many languages, so many faces.

And Salvatore is stuck in a classroom, forced to listen to a lesson he can't possibly understand.

Someone down in the street yells, and Salvatore is dragged out of his daydreaming. A child Salvatore's age runs past, footsteps echoing between the buildings, feet splashing in the puddles. He stops, turns around, shouts something, laughing, then takes off again. Three other kids run after him, shouting what Salvatore recognizes as Neapolitan insults. After a few seconds, two policemen finally huff past, panting. Salvatore finds himself grinning.

Salvatore sees the same four kids again later, as he's walking back home. They're hiding behind a corner, whispering to one another, eyes wide.  
“ _Ca succediu?_ ” Salvatore asks.  
They look at him, considering whether whatever is happening is more or less important than a Sicilian kid daring to speak to them.  
“ _Statti cittu,_ ” one of the finally says, pressing a finger against his lips, “ _Ward la_.”  
He grabs Salvatore by the shoulders, guides him close to the corner, and they all peek. A crowd has formed out of a factory, all men, all brandishing lead pipes and thick wooden bats. One of them is tapping his own weapon against the palm of his hand, the way Salvatore's teacher had been doing with the ruler.  
“ _Cu sunnu chiddi?_ ” Salvatore asks.  
“ _Irlandesi_ ,” the kid answers, making sure to use the proper Italian word so that Salvatore can understand him. He doesn't bother explaining why a bunch of armed Irish men is lingering there. He probably thinks Salvatore is about to find out anyway.

Which he does, as soon as the first worker walks out and is met with a pipe to the face. The sound it makes when it impacts with his skull is so loud it reaches Salvatore and the Neapolitan kids, who all shrink back instinctively. Chaos breaks. People shout. A man staggers towards the hiding children, he leans against the wall and spits blood and a few teeth on the sidewalk.  
One of the Neapolitans curses. Salvatore stares at the sticky, glistening red mess that is the man's face.

The whole affair is as brutal as it is quick. The police shows up, the Irish men disappear. It doesn't seem to Salvatore as if the cops are too shocked by the scene in front of them. They don't even really look surprised.

The Neapolitan kids and Salvatore move closer. Blood pools on the asphalt.  
The same kid who spoke to Salvatore before gives him a look. “ _Staj buon_?” he asks. He must be pretty shaken himself, if he's asking Salvatore if he's all right. Salvatore nods at him.

He wishes he could make himself understood, so he could tell the kid about the mines in Lercara Friddi. When Salvatore was four years old, helping his grandmother in the kitchen, an uncle of his walked inside and plopped on a chair. It was too early for a man to be back from the mine, still three or four hours before lunch.  
“What's the matter?” Salvatore's grandmother had asked.  
“There was a cave-in,” the uncle sighed, “A kid was crushed underneath it. A _picciriddu_.”  
Salvatore's grandmother had crossed herself, she'd fallen quiet.  
“I left before they could ask me,” he said.  
“Ask you?”  
“To tell his mother that she won't even get his pay for the day. He only worked for three hours, you see.”

It's not like it's the first time Salvatore has seen blood cake the dusty streets.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence, blood, antisemitism.

Blood is slowly running through the gutter, and Meyer stops walking, mesmerized.

It's starting to snow; the sky is of a compact, suffocating white. The wind makes the snowflakes swirl around; it stings Meyer's cheeks, makes his eyes hurt. He remembers his mother's words: turn around, run as fast as you can, hide if you have to, then look for a grownup Jewish person, because they'll know what to do. She tells him every time Meyer leaves the house, even if just to walk a few meters. Meyer is a good listener. He's already followed Yetta's instructions a few times, now.

And yet, before he can really think about it, he takes a hesitant step forward. Towards the desperate, animal-like screaming. Towards the curses. Towards the shadows dancing on the wall.  
It's like listening to the Rabbi gleefully tell scary stories to the older children, even when Meyer knows he will have nightmares afterwards. He wants to see. He wants to _know_.  
He _needs_  to know.

“ _Meyer_!” Yetta hisses, breathlessly, holding her skirt up as she runs towards him. She grabs him and lifts him up as if he were completely weightless, pressing him against her body and covering his eyes with a hand. “What are you doing? You have to run away when people scream, Meyer, you _have_  to.” she whispers against his hair.

Meyer clings to his mother. Even though he can't see anything, he knows nothing bad will happen to him, not while he's in Yetta's arms. But he can still hear the blood-curdling screams ringing in his ears. Has the sound followed them home? Is the man still alive, still screaming? Or was he loud enough, so filled with terror, that the sound is now so deeply carved into Meyer's ears he will never stop hearing it again?

“Listen to me, Meyer,” Yetta says, crouching in front of him, hands brushing the snow off his shoulders, curling his hair behind his ears, “Listen to me. I need you to stay home, all right? Never leave the house if your father or I are not around. Yes?”  
Meyer nods, frowning. “Why?”  
Yetta smiles. She kisses Meyer's cheek. “Don't you worry about why. Will you be a good boy and listen to your mother?”  
Meyer nods again, this time with more conviction.

The screaming, though. The screaming hasn't stopped.

That night, Meyer is lying in bed with Jake curled up against him, tiny hands gripping Meyer's nightshirt. They both spent most of the evening sitting on the floor near the fire, watching as Max, their father, quickly and roughly boarder up every single window in the house. From time to time, someone walks past the house carrying a lantern, and light seeps between the boards,.

“Our home is here,” Yetta is saying, in the kitchen. She left the door open, in case Meyer or Jake call out. Candlelight trembles on the floor. “Our family. Our friends.”  
“There is nothing we can do,” Max says, “This is not going to stop, it is not going to change. The only thing we can do is figure out how to survive.”  
“I know. Of course, I understand, but...” she sighs, but when she speaks again her voice is hard, “We have a right to be here. We should not be satisfied with surviving. Our _existence_  is not an insult...”  
She goes quiet. Jake kicks and mumbles in his sleep. A dog starts barking in the distance. Nocturnal birds gloomily call to one another.  
“We will do what is necessary.” Yetta says, after a long pause.  
“Will you manage?”  
“I will. We will. We have done it so far, have we not?”

In the morning, Meyer drags himself out of bed while Jake is still peacefully sleeping. He washes himself up, gets dressed, walks to the kitchen. Yetta is already busy: she's scrubbing plates and stealing glances at the bubbling contents of the pot she left on the fire. She gives Meyer a look and a smile when he climbs on the chair and kneels on it, looking at her.  
“Good morning, my love,” she says. She didn't go to bed, the night before. Meyer has watched the light of the candle dance and shiver across the floorboards until dawn, when a radiant blue started to shine through the cracks in the windows and shooed the candlelight away.  
“Is Tate going to leave?” Meyer asks. Yetta looks at him, going perfectly still, but only for a moment. She abandons the dishes, dries her hands on her apron.  
“Why do you ask?” she says, dragging a chair close to Meyer and sitting next to him, fixing the collar of his shirt, pulling up one of the tiny suspenders that keeps sliding down his arm, too large to fit Meyer properly.  
Meyer shrugs. “I hear things,” he says.  
The blank expression on his mother's face blooms into a smile. “You are such an observant little boy,” Yetta says, and her tone may be proud, but her eyes are sad. “Tate will be away just long enough to arrange for us to follow. Do you understand, Meyer? He will not leave us.”  
Meyer nods, but it's only because he knows when his mother expects him to do that.

 _He_  would not do it. He would never leave his mother and Jake, not even for a few weeks, not even for a few days. He would stay and watch over them until they could all leave together. How is leaving now going to help? How will Max be there for them if they need him? If they need him to fight, to scratch and bite and make people bleed? The danger is right now, right there, not in some nebulous, unformed future.

Yetta holds Meyer's little hands in her own. They're warm, the palms made raw by hard work. “We will be all right.” she promises, pressing her forehead against Meyer's.  
“Yes,” says Meyer, closing his eyes. His is a promise as well.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm not entirely satisfied by how this turned out :/)
> 
> Warnings: Violence, Charlie's father being abusive.

“Well,” Calogero, the son of the butcher, says, “Fourteenth time's a charm.”  
“Fuck you,” snorts Salvatore.

The man is short, thin, and drunk. Salvatore has met ten year olds more threatening than that guy, but he still feels nervous about the whole thing. Calogero and his clique make it sound so easy, but they're Palermitani, they were probably picking pockets even before their parents dragged them across the ocean. Whose pockets would Salvatore have picked in Lercara Friddi? The reason why people left the doors open, back there, was probably because they had nothing worth stealing to begin with...

“I got your back,” Calogero assures him, and before Salvatore can even mentally prepare, or question Calogero's skills as a tactician, the other kid has already run up to the guy and started talking in thick Sicilian. The man tries to shoo him away, but Calogero just smiles and keeps talking, blocking his way.  
Salvatore curses, takes a deep breath, and starts walking.

The man tries to dive past Calogero, who hops in front of him. Salvatore pretends to bump into the man and slips his wallet out of his pocket the way Calogero has shown him.  
“Watch where you're going, old man,” Salvatore says, glaring at him, not even stopping. The man doesn't seem to know whether he should be screeching at Calogero or at _him_.

It takes a lot of self-control not to break into a run as soon as he's past his target, but Salvatore manages, turning into an alley and hiding on the stairs leading to an abandoned cellar.  
“Told you you'd do it!” Calogero smiles, popping out of nowhere and sitting next to him. They pour the contents of the wallet on the step, discard identification and business cards. There are almost fifty cents in the wallet, and Calogero graciously lets Salvatore have more than half of it. “To celebrate,” he says, solemnly.

Salvatore only makes his way back home after the school day's over, even though he's managed to avoid the classroom for four days in a row. He carefully checks every room. Nobody's home yet.  
He drags a chair from the table to the credenza, climbs on it, and fishes the porcelain jar with 'zucchero' written on it with a flourish. As far as Salvatore knows, the jar has never even seen any sugar, and his mother has always used it to store the family savings. He fishes a few coins from his pocket, drops in just enough to make sure his mother won't get suspicious, then puts the jar back in its place and hides it behind two rows of glasses and cups.

He's in the room he shares with his siblings, about to hide the rest of his loot, when he hears the door open and close. He knows, from the heavy sound of his footsteps, that his father got back home.   
Two things could happen: he could be in a decent mood, and accept Salvatore's word that he ran back home right after school; or he could _not_  be in a decent mood, and assume Salvatore's done something wrong just because he's the first one back home.

Salvatore is about to climb out of the window and down the fire escape when Antonio walks in and looks straight at him.   
“Where's your mother?” he asks, in Sicilian, then: “Why are you hiding in here?”  
“I'm not hiding,” Salvatore says.  
“You're looking at me like I caught you stealing.”  
“I'm not hiding,” Salvatore insists, “I was leaving my book,” he says, pointing at the bedside table. He hopes Antonio isn't observant or interested enough to have noticed that Salvatore's _abecedari_  hasn't left that bedside table in a while.  
“Empty your pockets.” Antonio orders.  
“Why?” asks Salvatore, then bites his tongue. Wrong move. _Fuck_.  
“ _Now_.” Antonio says, eyes thinning as he looks down at his son.

It's not that Salvatore wants to disobey his father's orders, really. He just thinks about a way to get out of trouble for just a moment too long, and then he doesn't have to anymore, because Antonio walks across the room and slaps him so hard he loses his balance and falls on the ground.  
“What did you do?”  
“Nothing!” Salvatore yells, raising his arms to protect his face from the beating he knows he's about to receive.

The door opens again. Antonio turns just long enough for Salvatore to throw himself past him and run out of the bedroom. Salvatore is scared he will grab him by the hair and throw him back on the floor -it wouldn't be the first time it happens- but he manages to reach Rosalia and hide behind her, clinging to her skirt, face pressed against her. Rosalia gives him a look, then looks up at Antonio as he runs into the room and tries to grab their son.  
“Stop it!” she yells, moving in front of Salvatore to shield him better. “What happened?”  
“I didn't do nothing!” Salvatore says. Antonio's hands are hard from years of breaking rocks, and as big as shovels. The whole side of Salvatore's face is burning, throbbing along with the frantic beating of his heart.  
“Tell your son to empty his pockets.” Antonio snaps.

Rosalia looks at Salvatore, and Salvatore looks away.  
“Let me see,” she says.   
“Don't let him hit me.” Salvatore mutters, weakly. He digs both hands in his pockets, hands Rosalia a still wrapped chewing-gun, a solitary, battered die he found on the sidewalk, and ten cents.  
“Where did you get that money?” Antonio asks, pointing at the money.  
“I found it.” Salvatore says.  
At the same time, Rosalia says: “I gave it to him.”  
“She gave it to me.” Salvatore says, trying to keep his expression blank.  
“Stop protecting him, Rosalia.” Antonio says, “It won't do him any good. Your son is a _thief_.”  
“I told him to go buy some oranges after school,” Rosalia goes on, “He must have forgotten.”  
“I forgot,” Salvatore whispers.

Antonio glares at them. “Fine,” he says, plucking the money from Rosalia's hand, “ _I_  will buy the oranges.”   
“Thank you.” Rosalia says.  
Antonio slams the door on his way out. Rosalia lets go of Salvatore. She gives him a good hard look, probes his reddening cheek. She only turns away when she's sure Antonio hasn't done any major damage.  
“Set the table,” she says. Salvatore obeys without a word.

The following day, Rosalia walks Salvatore to school and makes sure to look at him until he's walked in.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The city is bursting with activity, people rushing in every direction, people shouting, bells ringing, horse hooves clapping. Meyer is holding on to his mother's hand, hard, wishing he were still young enough for her to pick him up and carry him. But he's nine years old, now, he's practically a man. He has to be strong.

The smell of rotting fruit and horse manure mixes with the ones coming from the shop they walk past. Fresh bread, spicy foods, something sugary and sweet.

One of the shops sells exclusively candy, Meyer realizes, looking at the window. Rows and rows of big, smooth jars filled with perfectly round, shiny, colorful bon-bons. Meyer stares at them. He doesn't realize he stopped walking until his mom caresses his face and says: “Are you tired, my love?”  
Meyer hurriedly shakes his head, he tears his eyes away from the candies, starts walking again.

His father is leading the way with Jake in his arms. Meyer looks at him and sees a complete stranger. He gets the feeling Max knows this, because apart from the hug he's given Meyer when he first saw him, he hasn't tried touching or talking to him. He's been treating Meyer as if the smallest, most casual touch is going to make him explode. Jake, he's sweeter. Or maybe he just doesn't remember as well as Meyer does.

Groups of children roam the streets. Meyer spots them sinking their hands into grown men's pockets, he sees them in the far end of crooked alleys, throwing dice and exchanging money. Some children are working, too. They carry huge, cylindrical boxes held close with fat ribbons, baskets full of groceries, they push carts brimming with fruit.

The fruit, too, catches Meyer's attention. There are elongated yellow fruits that, to Meyer, look both uninviting and artificial; there are lovely roundish fruit of a shade between pink and orange, their skin looks delicate and soft, very different from the thick, resistant skin of the yellow fruit.  
“What are those?” Meyer asks Yetta, pointing at them.  
“Peaches.” Max answers, and Meyer retreats his hand, feeling like Max eavesdropped on him. Max smiles apologetically, he shoots Yetta a chastised look. But Meyer finds he likes the sound of the word. Peaches. Something that pretty must taste very sweet.

Their new house turns out to be an ungainly row of rooms. The first room apparently works both as a living-room, dining-room, and kitchen; the one and only window is parallel to the door, all the way across the house, past the bedroom his parents will sleep in, in the one he will share with Jake. Both the bedrooms are small enough that all they can fit is a bed and a chest to store clothes.  
The bathroom, Meyer saw as they walked up the stairs, is on the landing, and it'll be shared with the rest of the families on their floor.

“It's not much,” Max says, avoiding to meet Yetta's eyes.  
“We will make it work.” Yetta smiles.  
For once, Meyer agrees with his father.

At night, Meyer sneaks out of bed and sits on the window-sill, one leg dangling outside, foot scraping against the fire escape. He can hear his parents whisper in the other room, his mother's voice soothing and gentle. Jake looks like he's never slept better in his entire life; he's hugging the pillow Meyer lay down in his place when he got up, his face squished against it. He didn't like the ship, Jake. He's not a loud kid: just like Meyer, he had to learn to be as invisible as he possibly could; but Meyer could see the tears in his eyes, the little hiccups, as he pressed his face against Yetta's chest and couldn't fall asleep.

Somewhere above them, a child starts crying. There is the sound of steps, then a woman starts singing a lullaby in Yiddish. Two people in the building facing Meyer's bedroom are arguing in front of the window, brothers, maybe, maybe friends. The sound of a violin comes from somewhere, brought along by the wind. Almost exactly underneath the two brothers fighting, in the street, a girl grabs a boy a few years older than Meyer by the collar of his shirt and pushes him against the wall; she kisses him, hard and brief, then moves away and runs off. The boy just stands there, a look of utter awe on his face.

It seems to Meyer as if everything, in this new city of theirs, were constantly happening at the same time.

He only sleeps a few hours, but when he wakes up Max has already left, and Yetta is sitting at the kitchen table, peeling potatoes.   
Not even twenty-four hours since they arrived in America, and Max has already provided Yetta with some work to do around the house. Meyer climbs up a chair, grabs a knife, and starts helping without a word.

It must have started raining while Meyer was asleep. It's not a heavy rain, just an intense, decisive murmur. It gurgles down the drainpipes, tick-tick-ticks against the window-panes. Thunder rumbles lazily, without conviction.

Meyer plops the potato skin on the table, one long, uninterrupted curl. He shouldn't be angry at the fact he crossed the ocean to see his father for just a handful of hours, he should know better, but for some reason he is. He sets the peeled potato on top of the others, grabs another one.

“It's not his fault,” his mother says. She doesn't even need to look up at Meyer's face to know what she will find there. “He's trying his best, Meyer.”  
Meyer wants to tell her he's not trying hard enough, but he doesn't. She always told him not to say anything about people unless he had something nice to say, so his mouth stays pressed shut.

What Max does or does not do hardly matters. One day Meyer will grow up. He will know what to do. He will not be scared to fight back.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of corporal punishment in this chapter.

Both the sound of the rain and the scratching of pen on paper are booming into Salvatore's head. His bones ache, his stomach rumbles, and the palms of his hands are throbbing and prickling. He looks at the bright pink stripes the ruler left on them, but only for a moment: the light from the lamp on the Irish kid's desk hurts his eyes.

Stubbornly standing before the headmaster, defiantly staring at him right in the eye, and telling him to suck his dick, was probably not the smartest idea Salvatore ever had.

In his defense, he had to walk all the way to Brooklyn with his father, who alternated intense silences with hissing lectures about the value of money and the moral importance of work. Not to mention Salvatore was still sore from the belting he got the day before, when the truancy officer showed up.

The Irish kid who shares the room with him keeps scribbling and scribbling. Salvatore groans.  
“Couldn't you have fucking studied _before_  they dragged you here?” he snaps.  
The scribbling stops. He knows the kid is staring at him.  
“You always this much of an asshole when you're hungry?” the kid asks. If he were hurting any less, Salvatore would throw something at him. He guesses the kid was one of the handful of students who assisted to the theatrical scolding the headmaster had given him, because he wrapped up the whole monologue announcing he would go to bed without food. That, or Salvatore's stomach is even louder than he thought.

By now, his siblings are probably all asleep, same as his father. His mother is usually the last one to go to bed. She always seems to find something to do, something that needs cleaning, or fixing, or preparing.

Salvatore wishes she would get angry at him, like his father does. He wishes she would yell at him, ground him. Instead, every one of Salvatore's actions that Antonio condemns just seems to hurt her. He doesn't like that look, he doesn't like it when Rosalia goes still, quiet, as if someone had just slapped her on the mouth. She looks so very small, when it happens, so very tired.

But what other option does he have? Waste every morning at school when he could be finding a way to make some money? Learn things that he will not only never use, but also most likely end up forgetting when he gets a shitty job in some factory? Hope to graduate to being paid one dollar per hour after twenty years of back-breaking work? That is, if he doesn't end up killed by some bullshit accident before that...

“They don't lock up the kitchen,” the Irish kid says.  
“Uh?”  
“Your stomach is so loud I can't understand what the fuck I'm reading.” the kid says, “I said they don't lock up the kitchen at night. Since they lock our rooms.”  
“Can't see how that helps me.”   
The kid grins. “Wanna see something neat?”  
Salvatore's head is still pounding, but he forces himself to sit up and watch. The kid puts his pen down and walks to his bed, fishing a little box from underneath the mattress. He holds up a roll of cloth the size of a cigar, makes sure Salvatore sees it; then he spreads it on Salvatore's bed. A series of thin metal instruments are secured to the cloth with little loops of fabric. “You know how to pick a lock?” the kid asks, looking smug.  
“No,” Salvatore says, suddenly interested.  
“Wanna know how?”  
“What's in it for you?” Salvatore asks, squinting at him.  
“Nothing,” the kid shrugs, “I'm hungry too, is all.”

Salvatore's roommate picks two of his tools, he walks to the door, waits until Salvatore has hopped off the bed and has crouched down next to him before he starts working. Salvatore observes him fidget with the lock, tongue between his teeth, listening to the door more than watching it. It seems to take forever, but it must have been only a few minutes. There's a click. The kid presses his ear to the door, checking to see if the corridor is clear, then, when he's satisfied, he opens it.  
“What happens when they come get us in the morning and find it unlocked?” Salvatore asks.  
“I can lock it with these too,” the kid shrugs, then he smiles mischievously, “Let's go get some food.”

Maybe the time spent in this shithole isn't going to be _completely_  wasted, after all.

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Did I do good?” Jake asks Max, again, looking expectant. Max smiles weakly at him.

Jake spent three days pestering Meyer, interrupting his homework, forcing him to sit down and listen as he repeated, over and over, the prayer to give thanks for the bread he wanted to recite before the Shabbat dinner. Meyer, as the oldest brother, has been the authority on the matter so far. Jake even asked him for permission, worried Meyer would feel bad if Jake said the prayer instead of him.  
Now, after a whole night, and well into Shabbat lunch, he's still bursting with excitement.

“You did great,” Meyer answers, not looking at their father.

He likes the whole ritual. The familiarity of it soothes him. He likes to watch Yetta light the candles and cover her eyes with her hands, he likes it when she blesses him and Jake; her eyes are always so warm when she presses a kiss to their cheek once she's done.   
Meyer remotely remembers Max doing that years ago, before he left Grodno, but since he left them behind, Yetta has taken his place, and Meyer wouldn't have it any other way.

Meyer is about to start eating when his eyes fall on Yetta's plate. His brain registers whatever information he just discovers before Meyer really understands the meaning of it. For a long moment, he doesn't know why he's staring; he just knows something is off. He looks at his own plate, at Jake's, then at their father's.  
There is no meat in Yetta's plate.  
Meyer looks at the chunk of meat in his plate. It's in no way a generous portion, but it's there. He considers the possibility his mother might not like meat, but he's positive he remember her eating it before; he even remembers her eating the meat in the cholent before, when they had more, so it's not even possible she doesn't like it cooked this way in particular.

So that's it, he thinks, distractedly poking at his food, eyes unfocused, suddenly feeling both sad and angry at the same time: She's not eating meat because she thinks having some for herself means taking it from her children or her husband.

Meyer looks at Max, who has already started eating, and his stomach twists painfully.   
_He_  hasn't noticed. How could he _not_  have noticed? He's an adult. He's a father, and a husband. He should know better. Instead, all he does, in those rare occasions in which he's home, is sleep, or stare into the distance, or complain about headaches. He doesn't even listen when Yetta talks to him, he's always distracted, always thinking about something else. Every time she asks for an opinion, he shrugs and refuses to take a position, fumbles with his words, forgets what they were talking about.

 _Useless_ , Meyer thinks. _Weak_.   
Meyer wonders how Max survived without Yetta, before they all followed him to America, because from what he sees, Max can barely take care of himself, now. How can he possibly take care of Yetta? Of Jake?

Meyer shakes his head, pushing away his thoughts. He cuts a piece of meat, but can't bring himself to eat it, not after what he just realized, not after seeing his father blatantly ignore the obvious. Then, he notices Yetta looking at him.   
She knows, Meyer realizes. Of course she does. When has she ever _not_  known what goes on in Meyer's head? She always finds it so easy, she takes a look at Meyer's face and reads him like an open book.  
“Eat your food, my love. It will get cold.” Yetta says, softly.  
Meyer could tell her he's not hungry, offer her his own portion, but he knows she wouldn't accept it. Refusing to eat it would only make her sacrifice pointless.  
He takes a bite, forces himself to chew.

If there is anything, _anything_ , Meyer wishes he had the power to make happen, it's making sure Yetta never had to keep herself from eating food in fear the rest of the family would go to sleep hungry.

Max is not doing anything about, and Meyer doesn't even consider the possibility he could suddenly wake up and find a way to provide for them in the future. So, Meyer thinks, that leaves him.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Salvatore tries to angle the boxes he's carrying so that he can see where he's going. He should probably have listened to the owner of the shop who asked him to deliver the boxes when he told him he could make two trips if he found it easier....  
Two men are smoking outside the restaurant Salvatore is about to walk past, one of them laughing at what the other just said. The laughing man notices Salvatore's struggle; he flicks the butt of his cigarette away.  
“Hey, _picciotto_ ,” he says, “You need a hand?”  
“I'll manage.” Salvatore says. Right as he trips and almost falls.

The man laughs again and grabs him before he can land face-first on the sidewalk. Miraculously, Salvatore doesn't let go of any of the boxes.  
“Where you going?” the man asks, and Salvatore suddenly knows who he is.  
His father pointed him to Salvatore a few days after he came out of his stint at the truant school, telling Salvatore that if he didn't behave, if he didn't find a decent job and decent friends, he would end up a thug like Giuseppe Masseria.  
“Just down the street.” Salvatore whispers, suddenly shy.  
“ _Rammi ccà_ ,” Masseria says, picking up two boxes and gesturing for Salvatore to lead the way.

There's a gun holstered at Masseria's belt. It reflects the sunlight when the man holds one of the boxes under his arm. Salvatore stares at it, mesmerized.  
“Whose son are you?” Masseria asks, in Sicilian.  
“Antonio Lucania. From Lercara Friddi.”  
“Lucania,” Masseria repeats, nodding. Then, in English, he says: “You Bartolomeo, Giuseppe, or Salvatore?”  
“Salvatore,” he answers, surprised, “You know my father?”  
“Is like a little town, no? Everybody know everybody.” Masseria grins.

He wonders if Antonio may be a little less morally impeccable than he acts, but he doesn't think he would get involved with people like Masseria. Then again, he does know enough about Masseria to recognize his face.

“Your father do that?” Masseria asks, pointing at Salvatore's face with his chin, “Or just the streets?”  
Salvatore feels his face flush, looks at his feet to try and hide the purple bruise on his cheekbone.  
“Just the streets,” he lies.  
“Tell you what, Totò” Masseria says, lingering in front of the building Salvatore has to deliver the boxes to. “He touches you again, you tell me. I take care of it.”

Salvatore looks at him. He knows, from the ice in his dark eyes, that Masseria isn't just talking for the sake of talking. If Salvatore were to actually ask him for help, Masseria would find Antonio and beat him to a pulp. He would want something in return, of course; that's just how these things work. But something, perhaps the domesticated but palpable anger in his voice, tells Salvatore he would greatly enjoy giving Antonio a lesson.

“I can take care of my father.” Salvatore says.  
“Like you take care of boxes?” Masseria says, lightly, and grins.  
“No,” Salvatore answers. Masseria studies his face carefully, all traces of humor disappearing for a long moment. He seems to like what he reads in Salvatore's expression, because he smiles.

On the way back, he hands Salvatore some money and tells him: “Why you no go buy me cigarettes? At the corner shop, you see? I have business to discuss, there,” he points at the restaurant he'd been smoking out of, “You keep the change.”  
“All of it?” Salvatore asks, eyes wide.  
“Sure. Come see me from time to time. If I got something to deliver, maybe you give me a hand, no?”  
“All right,” Salvatore says. “Thank you, sir.”  
“ _Si nu bravu picciotto, Totò_.” Masseria says, ruffling Salvatore's hair. “Stay out of trouble.”

Salvatore is not a stupid kid. He only lets himself feel hopeful about Masseria's proposition for the time it takes to cross the street.  
He's almost fifteen. He's too old to think anything comes for free. Masseria wants something from him. An errand boy, maybe, maybe something else.  
It's not a problem, Salvatore thinks, walking into the corner shop and wishing the man behind the counter a good day. Whatever happens, Salvatore is going to get something from this situation, too.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Meyer stands in front of his mother, holding up the pot for the cholent, patiently waiting while Yetta retrieves a coin and puts it into Meyer's breast pocket.  
“Careful not to lose it,” she says, patting his pocket. “Look both ways before you cross the street.”  
“I will,” Meyer says. She opens the door for him, and he walks out.

Summer is behind the corner, a sweet undertone to the still chilly wind. Street vendors shout the price of their merchandise as people walk past their carts, swarms of children run by, the occasional car honks. Meyer walks past the candy shop, trying not to look at the sweets exposed in the window. He does notice that the romantic, pink-and-white colors of the Spring exposition have left way to reds and oranges and yellows.

It's not the first time he's walked down this same path to the butcher. Every week, the day before Shabbat, Yetta sends him off to go buy some meat for the cholent. If there is no money for the meat, she still gives Meyer whatever she can spare and sends him to the butcher: their oven is too small for the pot to fit, and the butcher is kind enough to let the cholent cook for them.

Meyer doesn't complain. Why would he? He doesn't even have to leave the block. Yetta does much more for the whole family, and _she_  never complains. And yet, as Meyer carries the pot down the street, he wonders why Max isn't doing this, since he's home anyway, sitting in his arm-chair near the window, staring out at the people passing by.

As Meyer walks past a little alley, he hears a chorus of disappointed shouts. He turns instinctively, stops walking.

A few kids are crouching in a circle deeper into the alley. An older kid seems to be supervising whatever is happening, a cigarette between his lips.   
“All right, all right, keep it quiet.” he says. The volume of the muttering goes down.  
Meyer walks closer. He leaves the pot on a little row of stairs leading to a door, then takes a peek at what the kids are doing.

One of them grabs two dice, he murmurs something, shakes them up in his hands, and throws. He lands a one and a two and groans, running a hand through his hair. The other kids start talking all at the same time.  
“It happens, it happens,” says the older kid, “Who's next?”

This time around, the dice land on four and three, and the kid who threw them sighs in relief and grabs the money the older kid hands him.

The rules don't seem hard. They roll a die to decide who gets to throw first, then the others bet on whether he's going to win or not. The older kid is the one handling the money. So far, what Meyer knows is that he needs a seven to win, and that two or three are bad news.

Suddenly, the coin in his pocket feels incredibly heavy.

Has Yetta given him enough to buy meat for the cholent for each of the four of them? Or will she not get to eat anything but a few bits of potatoes and half an egg?

“Settle down. Let's start another round,” the older kid says. Meyer finds himself stepping forward.  
So far, two people lost, one won. He hands the older kid his money, bets the next person throwing the dice will lose. It's strange, how his heart, which has been beating like a drum while he placed the bet, seemed to go completely still when the dice landed on the ground. They look, to Meyer, to be bouncing slowly, as if falling through water.

The kid lands a six and a five. Meyer loses his money.   
For some unimaginable, ridiculous reason, the sky doesn't open up, the world doesn't come crashing down. Reality doesn't shudder, it just keeps happening. The kids keep playing, the voices from the street keep echoing.   
Meyer is stunned, numb. Just like that? It only took a few seconds, not even the blink of an eye, for him to lose the Shabbat meal of his entire family.

He flops down next to the pot, frowning, cursing his own stupidity.  
How can he go back home, now? What will he tell Yetta?  
He's been impatient. He should have waited. Three people are not enough to predict what's going to happen next; three people are almost the same as having absolutely no information at all. He should have watched. He should have _thought_.

It takes Meyer more than two hours to find the courage to go back home, and he only brings himself to do it because not being home before sundown would only be one more disappointment for his mother.  
When he walks in, Yetta looks at the pot, then she looks at him. Meyer's eyes are glued to his feet.  
“What happened?” Yetta asks.  
“I lost the money,” Meyer says. It's not a lie, is it? He just hopes she won't ask him how, or where.  
Yetta doesn't say anything for a moment. She walks up to Meyer, takes the pot from his hands, leaves it on the table.  
“It's all right, Meyer.”  
“We won't have anything to eat.” Meyer murmurs. If he had stolen something from her, he would probably feel less guilty than he does now.   
“We will find a way.” Yetta tells him, “I will come up with something. Even if I have to cook lunch tomorrow, it will be all right. Do you think HaShem would want me to let my children go hungry?”

She combs Meyer's hair back with a hand, and Meyer leaps forward and wraps his arms around her, pressing his face to her chest.  
“I'm sorry,” he says. Yetta hugs him tight. She smells of ashes and lemon-scented soap. She must have been on the rooftop, washing clothes or hanging them to dry.  
“Everything has a solution, my love,” she says.

 


	9. Chapter 9

“Antonio is not home,” Rosalia is saying, when Salvatore walks into the kitchen. He's been looking up at the sky all the way back home, worrying he may get caught in the massive summer storm that's brewing inside the gray, menacing clouds covering Manhattan like some beast ready to pounce.

A man is standing in the kitchen. A man who isn't a relative, a neighbor, or somebody's son.

“Salvatore,” Rosalia says, giving him an eloquent look. “Are you hungry?”  
He isn't. He made some money trashing some guy's shop on Masseria's behalf, and stopped to get something to eat on his way back home. But he knows his mother enough to nod.  
Rosalia hurries to get him a plate; she gathers some cheese, a few slices of ham, a chunk of dark bread. Salvatore sits and looks at the man, jaw set, ready to jump on him if the situation calls for it.

He's around Rosalia's age, round-faced and smiling. He's looking at Rosalia like she amuses him, like she's a capricious child who needs to be humored until her parents come back home and can be reasoned with. Still, when she turns her back to him to get Salvatore a glass, the stranger's eyes wander down her figure.

“Ma,” Salvatore says, not touching his food, “Who's he?”  
“He wants to speak with your father.”  
“Is he blind?” Salvatore asks, keeping his voice even.  
The man smiles. He sits facing Salvatore, who leans back and looks at him. Blind and rude, apparently.  
“No need to wait for your old man,” he says, in Italian, “There's finally a man in the house, after all.”

He speaks something close to actual Italian, but with a Calabrese accent. Strange. Older Italians tend to socialize with people with a similar background. Sometimes not even being from the same region is enough to make people associate with one another. A man from Palermo could very easily find a reason to have some quarrel with a man from Catania.  
Not that it matters. This man is not a friend.

“He's just a child,” Rosalia says, standing behind Salvatore, both hands on his shoulders.  
“Nonsense,” the Calabrese says, “You're in charge, aren't you?”  
“You're lucky I ain't.” Salvatore says, in English.  
The Calabrese's smile falters, but he regains confidence quickly.  
“I guess I'll have to wait for you father, then.” he says, still speaking Italian.

“This is my mother's house. You can say your piece now or get the fuck out.” Salvatore answers, again in English.

“Language,” Rosalia says. She may not have the greatest grasp of English, but she can recognize the tone of an insult when she hears one.

“Fine,” the man says, “Your father owes me money. He's three weeks behind.”  
Salvatore tries not to show his surprise. Antonio Lucania owes someone _money_?   
“How much?” he asks.  
“Twenty dollars.”  
Salvatore's eyes don't leave the Calabrese's for a moment. “What did he need twenty dollars for?”  
For the first time, the man answers in English: “I no ask questions. I want my money back.”  
“He ain't go no money here. You've wasted a trip.”  
“Tell him he got until the end of the month,” the man says, standing up, “Maybe an accident happens after that. Who knows.”  
“As long as the accident happens to him, it ain't any of my fucking business,” Salvatore answers. Then, in Italian, he adds: “Have a good day.”  
“You too.” the man says, coolly. He shoots Rosalia a hard look, then turns around and leaves.

Salvatore waits until the man has left, until his footsteps fade down the corridor, to grab his glass and drink. Rosalia walks to the window, looks out.   
“What did he say?” she asks, “How much does your father owe him?”  
“Don't worry about it,” Salvatore says.  
“I have almost five dollars set aside. Will that help?”  
Salvatore looks at her. He's not a tall kid, but he's already taller than she is. And yet, she never felt anything less than imposing to him, anything less than the highest possible authority. Now, she looks frail and scared.  
“I'll take care of it,” Salvatore says, “I'll reason with him.”  
“You insult me, Salvatore.” Rosalia snaps, “I know how you _reason_  with people. I see your hands all bloody when you come back home.”  
“I mean it,” Salvatore says, “You keep your money. I will deal with him.”  
“If you kill him, I will know.” Rosalia says, holding her chin up.  
Salvatore looks at her for a moment, then bursts into laughter. “You think I go around killing people?” he says, grinning, “Oh, Mamma. And you still let me in the house?”  
“You are my son,” Rosalia says, looking a bit embarrassed, “Whatever you think you have to do, you will always be my son. But if you touch that man, God help you, Salvatore.”  
“God is nothing to fear, compared to you,” Salvatore smiles, hugging his mother and pressing a kiss to her cheek.  
“You know it,” Rosalia answers, blankly, but with the clear hint of a smile in her eyes.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Meyer gathers the money he won, stuffs it in his pocket, and gets up, grabbing his pot.  
“Hey,” someone calls after him, “Ain't you gonna play some more?”  
“Next time,” Meyer says. He doesn't turn to look at the kid: the grin on his face could make him suspicious.

The odds were wrong.

It was an instinctive thing, something Meyer can't properly explain or understand. He sat on the fire escape for hours, observing the craps game. Kids came and went, they lost and won, but he _knew_  something wasn't the way it should have been.

First of all, there was too much _repetition_. Of course, people win and people lose, but there were these periodic, short stretches in which people won, and won, and won. It didn't make sense, and it didn't influence the amount of winning and losing that came after that.   
_Something_  was going on. So Meyer kept watching.

Once the sun set, as he walked back home, Meyer had a pretty clear idea of what was happening: the bank, the older kid who handled the money, was fixing the game.

Every time the attention of the kids doing the betting started to falter, after too many losses, some kid would come up and throw the dice, and a big portion of the bettors would win. It wasn't always the same kid, so it took a while to confirm it, but they always either won with a seven, or lost with a two. The kids kept changing, but the dice were always the same.  
As far as Meyer was concerned, the cheaters were there to make it so that the kids playing thought they had an actual chance at winning, and got them playing.

Of course, Meyer had learned his lesson. He wasn't going to risk everything until he was reasonably sure of being right. He kept watching. He tried to memorize the faces of the players.   
He found out that there was some rough repetition there, too. The cheaters must have all been part of the bank's clique, and they alternated themselves so that others wouldn't notice anything strange.

Even being sure of it didn't make Meyer any less nervous. He stood with the pot of cholent in his hands, following the game, until one of the cheaters appeared. He waited until he had an idea of the percentage of people betting for or against him, and joined the biggest group.  
He won. And won. And won. He left the game as soon as the friend of the bank stopped playing.

Yetta will eat meat on Shabbat, Meyer thinks, feeling light and happy. He will tell her that he did some errand for the butcher and he repaid him by putting more meat in the pot than what Meyer had paid for. It's not an outlandish story. He just has to work on the details, make them believable but not too precise, only offer the bare necessary, but be ready to answer questions. Yetta could know he's up to something, but will have no reason to doubt him, and no way to prove he's done something wrong.

On his way back from the butcher's shop, with his hands still in his pocket, clutching tight at the last of his winnings, Meyer walks past the push-cart of a man selling fruit. He backtracks, stops to look at the little neat piles of bananas and peaches and cherries and plums. He plays with the coins in his pocket for a moment.  
“How much for a peach?” he asks.  
He chooses his peach carefully, wraps it up in a newspaper page himself, being as gentle as he can.

He climbs up the fire escape instead of walking through the front door. Jake is sitting on their bed, leafing through one of Meyer's books. He tilts his head when Meyer sits on the window-sill and grins at him.  
“Come out here,” Meyer says. Jake immediately ditches the book and obeys.

It's a nice, warm day; the sky is so intensely blue it hurts Meyer's eyes to watch it. The peach is soft and fuzzy in Meyer's hands, as perfectly delicate as he imagined it would be. He carefully cuts it in two, trying not to let any juice drip, and offers one half to Jake.  
It's sweet, and firm, and tastes to Meyer like summer made fruit. He closes his eyes as he chews, thinking he probably never tasted anything this good in his entire life, and even if he does get to eat another peach, sooner or later, it will never taste like this again.  
“This is amazing,” Jake murmurs, as mesmerized as Meyer is.  
“It is,” Meyer agrees. He takes his time eating his portion, licks his fingers when he's done.

He washes the pit of the peach as best as he can in the sink of the cramped, dark bathroom on the landing; he dries it carefully, looks at it in the light seeping through the small window. He's going to hide it in the same little tin box he uses for pennies and marbles, keep it there to remind him of what's possible.

He needs to find a way to make sure the kids organizing the craps games don't find out his strategy.  
Or, better yet...

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of violence in this chapter, blood, and a mention of parental abuse.  
> I'm not sure if I should tag anything more specific than that, let me know if I messed something up.

Joe Masseria is sitting at his usual table, drinking an espresso and reading a newspaper, when Salvatore walks in. It's now hot enough that Masseria abandoned his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He smiles when he sees Salvatore waiting, fidgeting with his coppola.  
“Totò,” he says, “How come you look so serious?”  
“I need a favor.” Salvatore says. Better to get to the point quickly, before he chickens out.  
Masseria nods. He's still smiling, but Salvatore never really knows what that smile means. As long as he's known him, he doesn't think he's ever seen it reach Masseria's eyes.  
“Why you think I can help?”  
“I done everything you asked,” Salvatore says. It's true. He's intimidated people for him, carried cryptic messages, delivered packages he was ordered not to open; he's stolen for him, destroyed people's property, threatened.   
“Because I pay you.” Masseria says, with a shrug.  
“Because _you_  asked.” Salvatore says.

It's not a lie, either.   
Masseria may scare him, but he treated him fairly. He certainly treats him better than Antonio does. And he never once lectured him about the morality of what Salvatore does. Masseria knows where he stands, and knows where Salvatore stands. There is no pretense of moral superiority in the way he speaks to Salvatore.

“Sit down,” he says, “Tell me about this favor.”  
Salvatore obeys, nervously. He's seen so many people sit where he is now, asking Masseria to mediate with his boss. Being in that position unsettles him.  
“My father owes a man some money.” Salvatore says.  
“This man one of mine?”  
Salvatore shakes his head.  
“You want a loan?” Masseria asks, his tone mocking.  
“I want his name.”

Masseria looks at him. Something in his eyes tells Salvatore he's taking him seriously, now, that he realized Salvatore hasn't come to beg, he's come to bargain.  
“How you know I know his name?”  
“He's got business in this territory but he ain't Sicilian. He's some Calabrese fuck. He's competition. You know him, and if you don't, the Don knows him.”  
Masseria smiles again. He turns towards the man sitting at the bar. “Vincenzo, get the picciotto a gelato.”  
“I'm not a child,” Salvatore complains.  
“I can eat the gelato, if you don't want it.”  
Salvatore shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “I'll eat it,” he mumbles. Masseria laughs, but this time he just seems to be genuinely amused.  
“What do you want this name for?” he asks.  
“For future reference,” Salvatore says.  
“Future reference,” repeats Masseria, grinning, “I understand.”

He takes a look at his watch, seems to consider the situation.   
“You know how this works, no? I do something for you, you do something for me.”  
“Of course.”  
“I like you, Totò. Anybody else, I give them what they want and I wait until I need them. With you, I tell you now. If you think you can't do it, I pretend nothing happened.”  
“What do you want me to do?” Salvatore murmurs.  
“Tomorrow I meet a man. He make shoes. He come to my boss, ask for money. Six months later, when my boss want his money back, he call the police.”  
Salvatore nods.  
“ _Vogghiu ca mi porti i rìenti do' scapparu_.” Masseria says.

Vincenzo appears, setting a cup of ice-cream in front of Salvatore. Salvatore stares at it.  
Masseria wants this guy's teeth.  
“Do I need to kill him?” Salvatore asks.  
“No need, no need.” Masseria says. “Eat your gelato. You know what, how you say, what the most important _tool_  of a man is, Totò?”  
Salvatore eats a spoonful of ice-cream. He feels like he shouldn't enjoy it so much, considering the topic of the discussion. He shakes his head.  
“His hands.” Masseria tells him. “If we no get a return on this investment, then he no get a return as well. _Mi capisti_ , Totò?”  
“Yes,” Salvatore says, “I understand.”  
“You no need to say yes now. If you here when I come tomorrow morning, I know you decided. If you no here, is all right.”  
“I will be here.” Salvatore assures him.  
Masseria reaches out and pats Salvatore's shoulder. “You a smart little boy, Totò.” he says.  
Salvatore tries not to show how much those words please him.

The morning after, Salvatore is awake at dawn.   
The sky goes pink and orange, and Salvatore looks at his brothers and sister while they sleep, and wonders what they would think about what he's about to do.

He didn't lie to his mother about his intentions. When the Calabrese shows up, in a day, Salvatore will pay his father's debt and send him off. He's not stupid, he knows how it'll go. The man will say the twenty dollars he was owed didn't include any interests. But he's prepared for it.

The first thing he did when he put aside enough money working for Masseria was buying a pair of shoes. It was winter, and his own shoes were falling to pieces. The only reason why he hadn't asked Rosalia was because he didn't think he needed to make her waste money on him, when he could very well buy them on his own.   
When Antonio noticed his new shoes, all hell broke loose.   
He accused Salvatore of stealing, again, told him to give the shoes back. That time around, Rosalia wasn't home to stop the beating that followed.

So Salvatore has decided the best course of actions would be to hide the money somewhere, gamble some, invest some. He didn't buy anything too obvious after that.  
Between his daily job, the gambling, and Masseria, he put aside thirty dollars and a few cents. He will give everything to the Calabrese. He will send him off. He will learn his name. He will wait.

Masseria smiles at him when he sees him waiting outside the restaurant. He offers him breakfast, tells him to sit at another table and keep his eyes open.

The shoe-maker is around Masseria's age. He looks belligerent and arrogant. Salvatore isn't sure whether to feel annoyed by his behavior, or sorry for his stupidity. Masseria, on his part, looks extremely satisfied. He smiles and provokes him, and if the man was smart enough, he would be able to read Masseria's expression as well as Salvatore does. _Just wait_ , it says, _I'm going to love what you got coming for you_.

As soon as the man leaves the restaurant, Salvatore abandons his table and follows him. He doesn't look at Masseria for approval, doesn't hesitate. He can't let himself do that.

He reaches him in a dark, dirty alley; grabs a brick from an abandoned pile as he walks.  
“I'm sorry, sir...” he says. When the man turns and shoots him an angry look, Salvatore slams the brick into his face.

He feels detached from the whole thing, from the way the man screams, from the blood splattering his face, from the impact that reverberates up his arm. Once the man is down, Salvatore keeps hitting him with the brick. When that's taken care of, he smashes his hands with it.  
“Nothing personal,” he says, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket, picking up the teeth the man has been spitting one by one. His ears are ringing. The world feels artificial, distant.

He wipes the blood off his hands as best as he can, walks back to the restaurant with his eyes low and his hands stuffed in his pockets. He stands, still as a toy soldier, while Masseria examines the contents of the handkerchief. He waits for instructions.  
“Go wash yourself up, Totò.” Masseria says, his tone gentle, almost sweet.   
Salvatore obeys.

He avoids his own eyes in the mirror, watches the water in the sink run red with blood. He washes his face, closes his eyes for a long moment. He focuses on the sound of water dripping, the laughing coming from the kitchen, the clinking of cutlery. He's starting to shiver, but he forces himself up.   
He's not done yet.

When he goes back, Masseria stands up. He pushes a folded piece of paper into Salvatore's pocket, squeezes his shoulders for a moment.  
“You did very good, Totò. I no forget it.”  
“Thank you, boss.” Salvatore says, glad his voice isn't shaking.

He tries pretending nothing relevant happened, as he walks back home. Things like these happen all the time, in the streets. It's not the first time he's made someone bleed. He's seen so much worse, before and after moving to America. It was a business transaction, nothing more.  
And yet, not even half-way there, he finds himself turning into an alley much like the one he just beat a man half to death in; he leans against the wall, bends over, and starts throwing up.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Cursing&waving a gun around, nothing major lol

The kid is already taller than Meyer, even though it's clear, looking at his face, that he's at least a few years younger. He's a skinny boy, his knees scratched bright pink, an almost completely healed cut on his chin.  
His name is Benny. Meyer knows that, just like he knows that he must live somewhere near Meyer's house, because Yetta often stops to chat with the kid's mother on their way back from the pushcart market.  
What he does _not_  know is what the fuck is wrong with him.

It all happens very fast.

They're shooting dice in an alley, and some kid just lost all his money. Meyer isn't even playing, he's just watching with his hands in his pocket, about ready to go back home. _But_ , Meyer is small, and doesn't look like he'd put up much of a fight, and the kid who lost his money is looking to make somebody pay for his bad luck.  
“The fuck you looking at?” he snarls, at Meyer. Meyer just blinks at him, shrugs a little.  
“If I had to take a wild guess, I'd say someone who's about to make a fool of themselves.” he says.  
Which is probably not the best thing to say, all things considered.  
“What did you say?” the kid says.   
Meyer sighs, he puts his hands up in surrender. “Listen, I apologize. I don't want any trouble,” he says, if only because Yetta has been wondering just what kind of people does her son spend time with, seeing as he comes back home each day with a different part of him bruised or bleeding.

He's trying to think of a way to try and calm the kid down when Benny marches in front of him, puts a hand on Meyer's chest, pushes him back, and points a gun at the loser.

“What,” Meyer says, looking from the gun to Benny, then back to the gun.  
“Back the _fuck_  off.” Benny shouts, walking closer to the kid, brandishing his gun. The kid seems to have lost most of his will to make trouble, but he's still not ready to let himself give up and look scared.  
“What are you gonna do, uh? Shoot me?” he says, trying to look tough.   
“You could have worded that better,” Meyer mutters, then grabs Benny's shoulder. “There is no need for this. It was just a misunderstanding. Isn't that so?”   
He gives the kid an eloquent look, but what he gets in return is a: “Fucking coward kikes. I ain't scared of you.”  
“Oh, well.” Meyer says, glaring at him, “Thanks for trying to defuse the situation.”  
“What do you care if this piece of shit ends up dead?” Benny says, grinning.  
“You ain't got the balls to...”

Benny fires. Meyer jumps back, tripping on his own feet and almost falling on his ass.

The good thing is that the recoil makes Benny miss, the gun flying out of his hands.  
The bad thing is that from where Meyer is standing, right in the corner of the L-shaped alley, he can see two cops look in their direction, alerted by the noise.  
“ _Fuck_.” Meyer hisses, just as the cops notice him and start running. He kicks the gun before anybody can get a hold of it, grabs Benny around the waist and throws him into a pile of garbage bags. The kids start scattering as soon as Meyer jumps after Benny, slapping a hand on his mouth, wrapping himself around him like an octopus, and praying the garbage bags will give them enough cover.  
“Be _quiet_ ,” he whispers, and Benny stops struggling.

Meyer's heart is pounding inside his head, his hands shaking, but he must have had perfect timing, because some kids are still in the alley, dumbstruck, and only start running when the cops turn the corner, catching their attention and leading them away from Meyer and Benny.  
There's the sound of running feet, the shouting of cops and kids. Meyer closes his eyes, trying to breathe as silently as possible.

He waits until the alley is quiet again to take a look around and roll out of the garbage.  
“That was _exciting_ ,” Benny grins, picking eggshells and potato peelings off his clothes.  
“What the _fuck_ ,” Meyer says, staring at him.  
“What?”  
“You tried to kill someone over a craps game.”  
“No, I didn't.” Benny says, stepping over the garbage bags. “It was a warning shot.”  
“That's because you were holding that gun like a fucking magic wand.”  
“I meant to do that.”  
“ _Bullshit_.”  
“You're welcome, anyway.” Benny says, Meyer's rage not bothering him in the least.  
Meyer snorts, shaking his head. “Let's get out of here before the cops come back,” he mutters, grabbing Benny's arm and leading him away.

“You're Meyer, right?” Benny asks, as they walk in the general direction of Meyer's house.  
“Yes. You're Benny.”  
“You know my name?” Benny says, grinning smugly.  
Meyer shrugs.  
“I saw you beating some dago with a broken chair, once.” Benny says, cheerfully.  
Meyer feels his face grow hot. He looks at his feet. “He was picking on my brother.” he murmurs, apologetically.  
“It was _great_ ,” Benny smiles, “He was four times your size!”  
“I wouldn't say he was _four_...”  
“Also you gave me candies, once.”  
Meyer stops walking. He looks at Benny. “Did I?”  
“Yeah. The chewy ones. I was sitting on my own, you asked me if I was all right.”  
“Oh,” Meyer says. That's right, he remembers that. Benny had been sitting on a step, looking like he was on the brink of tears. Meyer had told himself it was none of his business, that he should just keep walking. But then he hadn't. He just seemed so lonely.   
“You were nice. That's why I thought I'd help you out.”  
“You wanted to kill someone for me because I once gave you candies,” Meyer says, slowly.  
Benny shrugs. “It's as good a reason as any,” he says, then blushes a little. “But it does sound crazy when you say it like that...”

There's something wild about him, some untamed force running underneath his skin. Back in the alley, with a loaded gun in his hands, there was no trace of nervousness in his posture or his face at all.  
And now he looks down, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking embarrassed by the possibility of Meyer's disapproval.

“It does sound like that,” Meyer nods. “But I don't think I mind.”

Benny is still looking at the ground when he starts smiling. He tries pushing the smile down, but it still echoes into his eyes when they meet Meyer's again.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some violence&antisemitism in this chapter.

The ground is frozen and slippery, the sky a compact white. It's early enough in the day that the snow that fell all night long is still pristine, not yet turned into a battlefield by children fighting imaginary wars, the only footsteps gingerly following the sidewalks.

Salvatore breathes into his cupped hands, then rubs them together, trying to warm up a little.  
He doesn't miss Sicily. He doesn't miss the cracked earth and suffocating heat. But even after all these years in Manhattan, the bone-deep, piercing cold, the kind that makes his eyes hurt and his fingers so numb they feel like they're not really part of his body, is still as alien to him as it was during his first winter.

“How 'bout that one?” Calogero says, pointing with his chin at the kid walking down the sidewalk. He's tiny, the kid, wearing clothes too big for him, nose stuck in a book as he walks. The cold doesn't seem to bother him, nor does he seem to have problems navigating the frozen ground.  
“Fine,” says Salvatore. If anything, they'll get their blood flowing.  
Calogero steps away from the wall, moving in the middle of the sidewalk and blocking the kid's path. Nino also takes a few steps away, but lingers behind Calogero. Salvatore watches on.

The kid looks up from his book. He gives Calogero the look of someone who's evaluating something he finds disappointingly lacking. He doesn't even close the book, Salvatore _notices._  
 _“What_? _”_ he asks. He has to tip his head back to look at Calogero, and yet he doesn't look even remotely intimidated.  
Before Calogero can answer, Nino moves forward. “You off to school, Jew boy?”  
Salvatore had thought the kid's eyes were cold before, but the way he's looking at Nino now could kill a man.  
“I understand how the whole concept of formal education must be obscure to you, and therefore maybe ignite your curiosity,” he says, “But I have no time for this.”

Nino gives Salvatore a look. The tone of the kid was completely blank, and Nino doesn't seem to know whether he should be offended by his words or not. Salvatore smirks, shrugging.  
“Let's cut the bullshit, all right?” Calogero says, raising a hand to block Nino's way and looking at the kid. “Tiny guy like you may use protection. The block's full of micks with no love for the Jews.”  
“As opposed to the friendly, helpful Italian fellows?”  
“Sicilians,” Nino mutters.  
“We ain't that harmless either,” Salvatore finally says, “But at least our service is cheap.”  
The kid looks at Salvatore too. He's got such dark eyes, Salvatore thinks, it's hard to figure out what he's thinking.  
“Is 'service' Sicilian for 'extortion'?” he asks, finally closing the book and crossing his arms.  
Salvatore grins. “Ain't you a smart little thing,” he says.  
“I will not be intimidated by you.” the kid says. He says it as a matter of fact, Salvatore notices, not as a way to encourage himself to be brave. He's just letting him know how things are going to unfold.  
Salvatore nods. “That's a pity,” he says.

Salvatore stands back and watches as Calogero and Nino throw themselves on the kid.  
He may be tiny, but he sure as hell doesn't hold back. Even after Nino has punched him in the stomach, he still knees him in the balls; he headbutts Calogero straight on the nose, and doesn't stop struggling when Nino finally manages to pin him down on the ground and starts beating him up.  
By the time Salvatore puts a stop to it, Calogero's eye is turning black, and Nino looks like he's about to throw up.  
“Maybe tomorrow you think twice about acting brave, uh?” Salvatore says.  
The kid is battered and bruised, his nose bleeding, but he still looks at Salvatore with absolutely no trace of fear in his pitch black eyes.  
“Maybe tomorrow you get your hands dirty,” he spits, _“Coward.”_  
  
  


 _Fuck,_ Salvatore thinks. He _likes_  the little guy.

  
  


The following day, Calogero's eye is bruised shut. The big guy isn't the kind to hold a grudge, but Nino, well.

The moment the kid steps close enough, Nino walks straight up to him and punches him so hard he slips and falls. Once he's on the ground, he starts kicking him. The kid curls up in a ball, arms up to protect his face.

“Nino,” Salvatore says; his tone enough of a threat that his friend immediately stops and steps back, panting. He walks towards the kid, picks him up by the back of his jacket, makes sure he's stable enough on his feet before he punches him in the stomach. The kid bends in two, clinging to Salvatore's coat, and Salvatore keeps him up.  
“Figured I'd make you happy,” Salvatore says.   
“How thoughtful of you,” the kid groans, but then adds: “Is that all you can do?”  
“You don't know when to shut up, buddy.” Salvatore sighs.

When Salvatore is done, his knuckles are split, and the kid is on the ground, spitting blood in the dirty snow. It doesn't feel good, Salvatore realizes, with a sigh. He didn't really _want_  to make the kid bleed, but Salvatore can hardly let him talk to him like that in front of Calogero and Nino.  
Salvatore crouches down next to the kid, gives him a look. His eyes are watering, his breathing stutters.  
“Listen,” Salvatore murmurs, “How about you change route, tomorrow? That way we ain't gonna need to go through this again.”  
“If you think I'm going to let a bunch of Catholic thugs dictate _anything_  to me, you must be delusional.” he says.

Salvatore smiles at him. “See you tomorrow, then.” he says.

  
  


“You gotta be shitting me,” Nino says, flicking his cigarette on the ground and marching away.   
Salvatore, still laughing at something Calogero said, turns around to see the kid standing there, waiting. Nino's punch catches him on the side of the head, but he recovers quickly enough to strike back. He's straddling Nino, punching him, when Salvatore walks up and grabs the kid, slamming him against the wall, kicking the air out of his lungs.  
“That's enough,” he tells the kid.  
“Stupid fucking kike,” Nino says, and spits on the ground, “Likes it better to be beaten to a pulp than to let go of his lunch money.”  
“Would you shut the _fuck_  up?” Salvatore snaps. Nino flinches and shrinks back, still glaring at the kid.

“You're something else,” Salvatore says, looking at the kid. “I'm trying to do you a favor, here. You think the three of us are bad? We ain't even got any beef with you. How long do you think it'll be before that big mouth of yours gets you into trouble with some mick asshole?”  
The kid seems to relax. He lets his head fall back against the wall, looks straight into Salvatore's eyes.  
“Go fuck yourself,” he says, painstakingly slow, enunciating each word with extreme care.  
Salvatore blinks at him, taken aback, then he bursts into laughter.

Now, _that,_ the kid wasn't expecting.  
“Christ, kid, you got balls,” Salvatore says, still laughing, letting go of the kid and taking a step back. The kid looks at Salvatore with his eyes wide, too stunned to even try and insult him.  
“Calogero, give me a smoke,” Salvatore orders. He lights up the cigarette, hands it to the kid, who considers it for a moment before accepting it. “What's your name?”  
“Meyer Lansky.”  
“Meyer,” Salvatore repeats.  
“The fuck kind of name is 'Meyer'?” Calogero mutters.  
“The fuck kind of name is 'Calogero'?” Meyer snaps back.  
“Easy,” Salvatore says. He squeezes Meyer's arm for a second, then pulls him off the wall and wraps an arm around his shoulders.   
“Get off of me,” Meyer growls.  
“You like cannoli, little Meyer?” Salvatore asks, starting to lead him away.  
“I... what?”  
“Not the shitty ones with whipped cream in them, the real deal. You know, with ricotta.”  
“I don't see how...”  
“You're gonna need some ice for that, anyway,” Salvatore says, poking at Meyer's temple, where Nino punched him. Meyer hisses and slaps his hand away.  
“Stop touching me.”  
“Don't worry, I ain't gonna hurt you. There's candied fruit in them.”  
“Candied... what?”  
“In the cannoli.”  
“I don't want any cannolis, let go of me!”  
“You're just saying that because you don't know any better,” Salvatore says, finally letting go of Meyer, but only to grab him by the shoulders and push him into the bakery.

Frank is sitting at a table inside, munching on something. He looks up when the bells rings, frowns at Salvatore.  
“Hey,” Salvatore smiles at him. “Get me some ice, would you?”  
“What am I, your fucking maid?” Frank says, but he gets up and makes his way to the kitchen anyway.  
The owner knows Salvatore; he doesn't complain when he leads Meyer into the room in the back.  
“I don't know what you think you're...” Meyer says, stopping only when Salvatore grabs him and lifts him up like a child, setting him down on a crate. Meyer looks at him, something between rage and utter confusion on his bruised face. “Don't you _ever_  do that again.” he says.  
“It's not my fault you're so fucking small,” Salvatore says, shrugging, grabbing a cloth and walking up to Frank as he emerges from the kitchen. Frank is still looking at him like Salvatore maybe lost his mind.  
“What's with the kid?” he asks.  
“We beat him up a little,” Salvatore shrugs.  
“Oh, you beat him up a little. That explains absolutely nothing.” Frank comments. He doesn't seem interested enough to hang around, though, or maybe he's still too hungry to be bothered.  
Salvatore's not sure Nino and Calogero will take this turn of events as well as Frank, but he finds he doesn't really care. The kid is _fierce._  
When he steps back, Meyer is almost done sliding down the crate. Salvatore casually puts him back, then presses the ice-filled piece of cloth against his temple. Meyer glares at him, but he doesn't make a sound.

“You're a tough little thing,” Salvatore says.  
“If you're trying to sweet talk me into giving you some money, that will not work either.” Meyer says, sounding tired.  
“Can I sweet talk you into giving me your friendship?”  
Meyer stares at him, then frowns. “Why would you want _that?”_ he asks.  
Salvatore shrugs. “I like you,” he says, “I think we could get along fine.”  
“Since when do Sicilians befriend Jews?” Meyer asks, gingerly.  
Salvatore shoos his words away with a gesture, he walks towards the front of the shop, saying: “Fuck that, little Meyer, we're all Americans, here.”

He comes back with two cannoli, hands one to Meyer, who doesn't look too convinced.  
“Is this kosher?” he asks.  
“Fuck if I know,” says Salvatore, already munching on his.  
Meyer hesitantly takes a bite. His eyes go wide as he chews, and Salvatore grins at him.  
“Fuck, this is good...” Meyer whispers.  
“Told you,” Salvatore says, triumphantly.

 


	14. Chapter 14

“You know that guy?” Benny asks, poking Meyer with an elbow.  
They're both crouching, supervising the craps game, Meyer trying to keep an eye on things while at the same time counting money.

Salvatore is standing nearby, hands in his pockets, looking at the people as they play. His eyes dart around, following the dice as they roll. He tilts his head, nods to himself.

Meyer groans and hands Benny the money. “Make sure there are no fuck-ups.” he says, and stands up.

The focused look on Salvatore's face melts into a smile when Meyer approaches him. Meyer stands next to him, but looks away. For some reason, that smile makes him feel too exposed.  
“How come you ain't fixing the game?” Salvatore asks, as a greeting.   
Meyer blinks. He frowns at the ground. He did _not_  expect Salvatore to notice that, certainly not so quickly.  
“There is really no need to do that,” Meyer says, quick enough to mask his surprise, “Gamblers usually lack in self-control, which means the money will, sooner or later, end up in the bank's hands.”  
Salvatore keeps nodding, his eyes following Benny's movements.  
“Additionally, it helps out reputation.”   
“'Ours' being you and the kid?”  
“Yes,” Meyer says, then adds: “I don't suppose you came here to play.”  
“I got a proposition, actually,” Salvatore says.

Again, he wraps an arm around Meyer's shoulders and steers him away.   
Meyer tenses up. He is, all of a sudden, deeply aware of every inch of his body. His skin feels as if it's wrapped too tight around muscle and bones; the places where Salvatore's fingers press into Meyer's shoulder prickle. Meyer has to make a conscious effort to even keep breathing normally, to make his legs move like those of a proper human being.  
Salvatore, astoundingly, doesn't seem notice any of that.

“I know of a guy. He's a loan shark, works in my neighborhood. He had an accident.”  
Meyer gives him a look. “Is he dead?” he asks, gingerly.  
“Trust me, he ain't got half of what he deserved.” Salvatore says. “He's stuck in the hospital for a while, so I though we could maybe do him a favor and go clean his house for him.”  
“You want to rob a loan shark?” Meyer enunciates, squinting at him.  
“He ain't got no affiliation with nobody. Works on his own. Doesn't owe allegiance, gets no protection. He's a low-life piece of shit, only loans to housewives and such.”  
“And you are _positive_  your information is accurate?”  
“I am. I been watching him for a while.”  
“How long?”  
Salvatore's face actually turns a little pink at the question. “I done my homework,” he says, “Plus, I asked for permission.”  
“To whom?”  
“To Joe The Boss,” Salvatore says.

The way he says it is way too matter-of-fact, with no hint of forced casualness, for him to be lying or name-dropping. And he doesn't immediately start talking again, either, he just lets the information sink in, then says: “Whatever we find, we split fifty fifty. If your kid friend wants to join, we'll split between the three of us.”  
“What has this man done to you?” Meyer asks.   
Salvatore looks at him for a moment. “What do you mean?” he asks.  
“You're willing to reduce a fifty percent share of whatever you will steal from this man, if my friend agrees to come along. Obviously, money isn't your main concern, in this situation.”  
Salvatore grins, giving Meyer a look that feels so much like pride that Meyer has to look away for a moment.  
“It doesn't matter, little Meyer,” he says. “It's still a job.”  
“Fine. What if the man has nothing of value?”  
“Then I pay you from my own pocket,” Salvatore says, “I know you ain't just gonna take a risk like that for nothing.”  
Meyer nods to himself, gives Benny a look as he considers Salvatore's offer.  
“Let's discuss our pay, then.” he says.

  
  


As Meyer looks around, immediately moving from window to window and drawing the courtains, he's hit by the fact that the living-room of this apartment alone is probably as big as his entire house.

Judging by the fact that both the doors on the landing lead to the same apartment, Meyer would say the loan shark tore down a wall and expanded his domain to the adjacent apartment, at some point.   
All that space, though, is the only thing Meyer really envies the guy. The furniture and the décor of the house are an array of mismatched pieces, probably stolen from people who couldn't afford to repay their debts in cash.

The man, Meyer thinks, picking up a heavy, owl-shaped, golden trinket, was probably attempting to give his home some suggestion of elegance. He obviously wasn't smart enough to realize that only people whose identity is deeply rooted in poverty have a tendency to give such importance to objects. When you have money, everything is replaceable, after all.

“The safe's in there,” Salvatore says, pointing at a room. Benny looks content enough stuffing things in his pockets. Meyer follows Salvatore.   
He's behind the desk in what looks like a study, pressing an ear to the safe, eyes closed as he slowly turns the handle.  
“I hope you know what you're doing.” Meyer says.  
“Sure I do,” Salvatore says, “I went to the Brooklyn Truant School.”  
“Right,” mutters Meyer, frowning at him.

Meyer lingers there, watching Salvatore. He's never done something like this before; he keeps expecting someone to burst in and catch them red-handed. What if the man asked a neighbor to keep an eye on his house? What if he has friends?  
But Salvatore looks so calm. So determined.

“How did you know the safe was in here?” Meyer asks. The question leaves his lips before he's even had time to really think about it himself.  
“Told you I done my homework,” Salvatore says, distractedly. Meyer expected the safe to make some sort of noise when opening, but it just slides open, seamlessly. Salvatore shoots him a look and grins. “Hand me the bag?” he says.

When they walk out of the study, Benny is also crossing a doorway and walking back into the living-room.  
“Where were you?” asks Meyer.  
Benny shrugs. “I took a shit on the bed.” he says.  
Meyer blinks at him. “ _Why_?”  
“ _That,”_ Salvatore says, “Is a great idea. Tell you what, start breaking all this crap this asshole has, and I'll give you another ten dollars.”  
“Deal,” says Benny, cheerfully.  
“Here, hold this, I should go piss on his papers,” Salvatore says, handing Meyer the bag.  
“The knowledge of the fact I'm surrounded by lunatics is _incredibly_  comforting,” Meyer snorts after him.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Salvatore is sitting at Meyer's dinner table, opposite to Max, a few cards in his hands. He looks alien in Meyer's house, misplaced; something Meyer found in a dream and carried along into reality. He's got the hint of a smile in his eyes as he looks at Yetta study Max's cards from over his shoulder, leaning to whispers something to her husband that makes him giggle.  
Max plays a card, and Salvatore theatrically groans and uncovers his own. “You're too good at this, Mr Lansky,” he says.  
“I think I am not as rusty as I thought I was,” Max says. His accent sounds thicker than usual, heard next to Salvatore's.

Meyer stands there, frozen in the doorway, looking at them. He doesn't like Salvatore being in his house. He doesn't like him sitting on a rickety chair, drinking from a chipped glass. He doesn't like him _seeing_  the way Meyer lives.

“What's going on?” he asks, his tone circumspect.  
Salvatore turns around to look at him. He smiles so brightly Meyer is taken aback.  
“Your friend was waiting for you,” Max says, and it's one of the longest sentences Meyer has ever heard him say in the past few years.  
“I did ask him to stay for dinner...” Yetta says.  
“I'm sure he's busy.” Meyer says, trying not to sound too harsh. “Can we talk?”  
Salvatore nods and gets up. “It's been a pleasure to meet you, Mr and Mrs Lansky.” he says, “I'm gonna win next time, though.” he grins, looking at Max.  
“Do not sound so sure.” Max says, and, astoundingly, grins right back at him.

Meyer waits on the landing until Salvatore follows him and closes the door behind him.  
“Your parents are nice,” Salvatore says.  
“ _This_ ,” Meyer says, pointing at him, then at the door, “Is extremely inappropriate.”  
“Why?” Salvatore frowns, “We just played cards.”  
“We are associates, Salvatore, not friends. You can't just show up at my house and spend time with my parents.”  
“I think you're my friend,” Salvatore shrugs.  
Meyer hesitates. “I don't think I've done anything to deserve that.” he says.  
“You don't need to. It just happens.” Salvatore says, then reaches out to swipe the snow off of Meyer's shoulders. Meyer swats his hand off, mechanically.  
“Well, it hasn't happened for me.”  
“Aw, come on,” Salvatore says, smirking smugly, “You don't like me at all? Not even a little bit?”  
Meyer's face suddenly feels incredibly hot, and it confuses him. He has no reason to be embarrassed. Has he?  
“Listen,” he sighs, rubbing his eyes, “Is there a reason why you were waiting for me?”  
“Yeah,” Salvatore says, fishing an envelope from an inner pocket of his jacket. “I dropped some of the stuff at the pawn shop. This is your part.”  
“Is Benny's part here as well?”  
“I gave him his part already. Found him ambushing micks with snow balls on my way here.”  
Meyer nods, fidgeting with the envelope for a moment.

Salvatore looks around, he moves a step closer. “Don't go getting mad at me, little Meyer,” he says, “I ain't told nothing strange to your parents.”  
“I do not want them involved in my business.”  
Salvatore laughs, shaking his head. “You really think I'm a dumb son of a bitch, uh?” he says. Meyer's wide-eyed look makes him smile even wider.  
“I don't...”  
“I ain't the same kind of smart as you,” Salvatore says, “I don't carry around books and talk all fancy. But that don't mean I'm stupid.” Salvatore says, “I look after my interests, and the way I see it, your interests are the same as mine. I'd never put you in trouble.”  
Meyer doesn't talk for a moment. He looks at Salvatore, trying to figure out if he means what he said, or if he's just a very talented actor.  
“Right,” he murmurs, “I see. Thank you.”  
“You're welcome,” Salvatore says.

He smiles at Meyer again before he leaves. Meyer lingers on the landing, listening to Salvatore's footsteps echo faintly up the walls before disappearing.  
He's not good at having friends. Benny is different; Meyer's relationship with Benny has more in common with his relationship with Jake than anything else. But Salvatore. He has nothing in common with Salvatore, apart from business. At least he thinks so.

When Meyer closes the door behind him, Yetta is sitting in Salvatore's place, shuffling the cards.  
Meyer can't remember the last time his father did anything other than sitting somewhere and looking gloom.  
“What did your friend need?” Yetta asks.  
“Nothing. He just wanted to say hi.”  
“He waited a long time to just say hi,” Yetta says, giving Meyer a look.  
“He's like that.” Meyer mutters, marching to his bedroom.

It takes Yetta a while, but she does appear on the doorway, leaning on the frame, looking at Meyer as he sits cross-legged on his bed, doing his homework.  
“Is something wrong, my sweet little Meyer?” she asks, tilting her head.  
“Don't call me that,” Meyer groans, “Salvatore calls me that.”  
“He calls you 'my sweet little Meyer'?” Yetta asks, raising an eyebrow at him.  
“Well, the second half, anyway. He's just making fun of me.”  
“I don't think he is,” Yetta says, gently. She walks into the room, sits on Meyer's bed. “Would he have gone through the trouble of coming to the house, if he just wanted to make fun of you? Spent more than an hour with us?” she smiles sweetly, girlishly, “He was very polite, too. He greeted me in Yiddish when I opened the door. He took off his hat.”  
“He's charming. So what?”  
“I don't think he's being dishonest, my love. I think he really likes you.”  
Meyer hesitates, eyes stuck to the numbers scribbled on his notebook.  
“Why would he want to be my friend?” he asks. Normally, he wouldn't do this. Normally, he would rather spend countless nights awake than letting his mother share part of his worries. “He's a Sicilian. A Catholic.”  
Yetta leans back a little; she seems to consider Meyer's words. “This is a new world, Meyer.” she says, “And you children are a new breed of people. But maybe it's even easier than that. Maybe he just sees in you more than others do.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

It's a clear, almost summer-like day. People are swarming the streets, children screeching, women wearing large hats and holding picnic baskets.  
“Ain't gonna last,” the man behind the counter says, noticing the way Salvatore's attention is drifting to the streets on the other side of the large windows in the shop. The last client before Salvatore walks out; the bell on top of the door tinkles softly.   
“You think so?” Salvatore asks. He holds his hat and takes a step closer, smiling politely.  
“Just the time to make people take their clothes off and get sick,” the man grumbles, “How can I help you?”  
Salvatore takes a look at the merchandise, then shrugs a little.  
“I think a hundred and fifty dollars will do,” he says, still smiling amicably. “It's actually a bit less than that, but I'd be generous if I were you. To keep my boss happy, you see."

The color drains from the man's face. He looks around for a moment, looks at Salvatore's hip, then up to him again.

“I told the other fella,” he murmurs, “I need some time. Business' slow, is all.”  
The moment he says that, Benny lets out a yelp and jumps back, bumping into a pile of boxes and tipping it over, making shoes pour on the floor.  
“Did I not tell you it was highly flammable?” Meyer asks, pointing at a black shoe as it sizzles and smokes. He then looks at the man behind the counter, black eyes calm and piercing. “It contains charcoal. Doesn't it?”  
“What...?” murmurs the man, looking from Meyer to Salvatore.  
Meyer picks up a small round can and shakes it a little. “Black shoe polish,” he says, opening the can and letting its contents plop on top of some shoes. “It contains charcoal. Yes?” he asks again, lighting a match and holding it up.

“Give me a week. I'll have the money in a week.”  
“If it was up to me, I'd be fine with it,” Salvatore says, “But patience ain't one of Joe's virtues.”  
“He's got virtues?” snorts Benny.  
“He's a pretty decent cook,” shrugs Salvatore, “That count as a virtue?”  
“That ain't a _virtue_ ,” Benny insists, “Virtues are about, you know. Your character or some shit.”  
“I'm afraid this fascinating conversation will have to wait,” Meyer says, shooting Salvatore a look, then looking at the door.

A woman and a cop are talking out on the sidewalk. He's not paying attention to them yet, but he's too close for comfort.  
Salvatore gives the owner of the shop a look. “Be smart,” he says, “The three of us? We're the nice ones.”  
“Is this a good moment to mention I have a gun on me?” Benny asks, casually.  
Salvatore, Meyer, and even the man they're supposed to be threatening, all look at him.  
“You need to start activating your brain before you leave your house.” Meyer hisses, grabbing Benny's arm and starting to drag him away.

That's when the cop walks in.

“'Morning,” he says, miraculously not noticing the fact all four of the people inside the shop are frozen in place.  
“Good morning, sir. How can I help you?” says the owner, his voice too loud, his smile too broad.  
“Is everything all right?” the cop asks, giving Meyer and Benny a look.   
“Yes, yes, everything is all right,” the owner insists.  
“Well,” says Benny, “Fuck this.” and starts running.

For a moment, nobody moves a muscle. The cop looks at Benny, taken back. Meyer gives Salvatore a look, then follows Benny.   
“ _Hey_!” the cop yells, finally running after them, “Stop right there!”  
Salvatore sighs. “This time next week, old man,” he says, and trots out in the street.

He catches up to the cop as he's looking around an alley. He's kicking over trash cans, and from where Salvatore is standing he can see Meyer and Benny nestled on the fire escape right above the head of the fucking cop.  
“Oh, come on,” he groans.   
He's gonna look up, sooner or later. He's gonna figure it out, and Meyer and Benny can't move without making a sound.

Salvatore looks around, eyes finding a pile of crate filled with spoiled fruit. He grabs an orange, still not completely rotten, but soft enough his fingers almost sink into it.  
"All right," he mutters. He takes aim, throws, and the orange hits the side of the cop's head and  _explodes_  like a balloon filled with water.  
"You like running after little kids, you fucking coward," Salvatore yells, " Come get me, if you can."  
He waits until he's sure the cop is chasing him to turn around and start running.

It takes him a while to lose the cop, and he's still panting when he walks into the alley behind Calogero's father's shop. As usual, Calogero is leaning against the doorway in the back when he should have been working. Meyer and Benny are there, along with, surprisingly, Frank.  
“Hey, Sal!” Calogero calls out. The other three all turn to look at him. The way Meyer smiles when he sees him, a mix of relieg and the self-deprecating grin of someone who did something embarrassing, makes Salvatore's heart hop in his throat.  
“See?” Frank says, his tone peculiarly soft, “Told you he'd be fine.”  
“Aw, were you worried about me, little Meyer?” Salvatore grins.  
“I was worried about the inconvenience you would have caused if you ended up in jail,” Meyer snorts.  
“Meyer was saying the whole gang should have chipped in if we had to pay bail,” Frank says, “And I should have been the one paying it, since I'm older.”  
“You really put some thought into this, uh?” Salvatore says.  
Meyer shrugs. “Just the bare minimum, to be honest.”  
“Hey,” Salvatore says, moving closer and giving Meyer's arm a little squeeze. “I appreciate it.”  
“Anybody would have done the same,” Meyer says, looking away.  
“Maybe. But you're the one who done it now,” says Salvatore. “So, you know. Thanks.”  
Meyer nods. He doesn't _really_  smile, but his eyes, when he looks up at Salvatore, definitely do.

 


	17. Chapter 17

By the time Meyer is done with the last chapter, the sun is high above him and the terrace of the public library is almost empty. He only realizes he's hungry once he tears his concentration away from the books, but he doesn't gather his things and get up right away.

He's under the shade of the canopy, but little slices of light pour all around him. The terrace is cooler than the streets below, and he doesn't exactly enjoy the thought of plunging back into the heat. Plus, the cooing of a turtledove and the rustling of pages are almost mesmerizing.

As is the way Salvatore's curls are currently swaying gently in the breeze, Meyer suddenly realizes.

He's been sleeping for a few hours, now, precariously half-leaning against the desk, his feet up on a chair. Even though he's far away from anything and anybody, he's still frowning, Salvatore, his dark eyelashes trembling as he dreams.

Meyer tilts his head and looks at him. Dots of light shimmer and shift on him, his sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, his hair messy. It's astounding, how quickly he dozed off after Meyer told him to shut the fuck up and let him study. He just shrugged, flopped, looked at Meyer from under his eyelashes for a few minutes, then closed his eyes.

He could have left. He did, after all, go to the library specifically because he knew Meyer would be there and wanted to tell him something about business. He could have left and done something else, but he just sat there and lazily looked at Meyer as he read and took notes.

There are things Salvatore makes him feel that Meyer can't seem to understand.

He doesn't trust him, that he knows. He can't bring himself to trust him just yet. But the thing is, and this has never in his life happened before, he _wants_  to. He feels this overwhelming, nagging _need_  to let him know _everything_. He wants to tell him things, he wants to share thoughts, he wants Salvatore to know all there is to know. And he has no idea why.

And then there's the way it felt seeing him there, a few weeks before, when Meyer was sure he'd been caught by that cop. The relief had been so intense it left him shaken. It had felt like taking a gulp of air after holding your breath for too long, or cutting the ropes around your wrists and feeling the blood rush back to your numb hands. It had been, in a way, painful to feel.

Meyer closes his books and pushes them aside. He crosses his arms on the desk, rests his head on them, and looks at Salvatore, their eyes at the same height. He wants to reach out and brush one of his curls off his face, but that's such a stupid thing to think. Salvatore sighs, eyes moving underneath his eyelids. Meyer won't ask him what he's dreaming, so he briefly wishes he could just take a look. See what goes on inside Salvatore's head when he's not busy being a smug little shit.

Because let's be honest. He wants to know Salvatore as much as he wants Salvatore to know _him_.

He's too distracted, when Salvatore opens his eyes, to pretend he was doing something else. He opens them just a little bit at first, blinks a little, then looks straight at Meyer, and half of his face is hidden behind his arms, but his eyes smile at Meyer.  
“Hey,” he whispers, voice hoarse.  
“Hi,” Meyer answers, and immediately feels stupid. “I, uh. I'm done studying.” he says, with the vaguest hint of a question mark at the end of the sentence. “I was thinking to go get something to eat.”  
Salvatore closes his eyes again for a moment and hums. “All right,” he says.  
“What did you want to tell me?” Meyer asks, gathering his things and trying to find a way to break away from the weird feeling this moment, right here, is suspended in time.  
“Nothing,” Salvatore mutters, “I just wanted to see you.”

Meyer freezes with his notebook half-way into his bag. He looks at Salvatore, who seems to be struggling to disentangle himself from sleep, and his brain stops working completely for a handful of seconds. Salvatore opens his eyes again, looks back at Meyer.

“I think... if you're still sleepy, that is, I can go get something to eat and bring it back here?” Meyer shrugs, “It's against the rules, but I can hide it in my bag, I suppose.”  
“It's all right,” Salvatore says, and finally pushes himself up. He stretches like a cat, his shirt lifting up a little; he rubs his eyes. “Walking will wake me up.”  
Meyer nods, closing his bag and waiting for Salvatore to stand up, fix his shirt, and grab his jacket.

He walks so close to him, Salvatore. Meyer catches himself thinking he wouldn't mind it if he wrapped an arm around him, like he so often does; but he pushes the thought away and speeds up a little.  
“You must be fucking starving,” Salvatore laughs.  
“Yeah,” whispers Meyer, glad the fact he's a few steps ahead of him won't make Salvatore notice the blood rushing to his cheeks.

 


	18. Chapter 18

“What are you doing here?” Meyer frowns, leaning outside the window to look at Salvatore, who's sitting on the fire escape stairs. He's been sitting there for a while, too. He's not sure _why_. He could have looked for Frank, or Calogero. They wouldn't have had any problems with Salvatore showing up unannounced. But Meyer's house was just the first place that came to mind when he walked out of his parents' house.  
“I was in the neighborhood?” Salvatore says, tentatively.  
“It's Christmas day,” Meyer says, slowly.  
“I thought Jews didn't celebrate Christmas.”  
“We don't. You do. What are you doing here?”  
Salvatore answers with a shrug, and Meyer tilts his head at him, as if trying to stare down Salvatore's will.  
“What happened to your face?” he asks.  
Salvatore looks away. His eyebrow is split, and though it probably stopped bleeding, it's swollen and numb and there must be a decent bruise forming on the side of his face.  
“I'm, hm. I'm gonna go...” he says, nodding to himself. “Yeah...”  
“Don't be an idiot,” Meyer snorts, “Just... go knock on the door, all right?”

Yetta's eyes flicker to Salvatore's eyebrow, but she doesn't comment on it. She smiles at him and hushes him in.  
“We were just about to light the candles,” she says.  
“I can go if...”  
“Stay,” says Meyer.  
“Or I can do that.” Salvatore murmurs.

He knows plenty of Jewish people, Salvatore. Mr Goodman, his employer, even invited him to have dinner at his house several times. But this feels more intimate, and Salvatore feels like he's invading somebody's privacy.  
He stays quiet as Yetta lights the candles, as she waves her arms above them and covers her eyes; feels himself blush when she puts her hand on his head and recites a blessing, right before moving on to do the same thing to Meyer, then Jake.  
“It looks like you've been adopted,” Meyer comments in a whisper, as they both wait to wash their hands after Max is done saying the blessing over the wine.

The feeling of being an outsider fades soon enough, as they all start eating and chatting. He knows Meyer doesn't get along with his father, but there's no tension on Max's part, no implicit threat in the way he talks to his son.   
“He delivers hats,” Meyer is saying, and it drags Salvatore away from his thoughts.  
“Who?”  
“You,”  
“Oh. Right.”  
“How do you like your job?” Yetta asks.  
“It's all right.” Salvatore says, “The pay's better than most. And Mr Goodman treats us fine.”

He used to linger, Salvatore. When he had nothing to do after work, when Meyer was busy, when he had no jobs to do. He was looking for an excuse not to go back home for dinner, and Mr Goodman seemed to realize that. He never asked Salvatore about it, but the way he looked at Salvatore's father when they finally met was eloquent enough.

“Meyer mentioned you live alone,” Yetta says.  
“Yeah. I needed some space, you know.” Salvatore says.  
“Young men have their needs,” Max comments, with a grin. Meyer glares at him, but Max doesn't seem to notice.  
“Ain't that the truth,” Salvatore grins back. Which makes Meyer glare at _him._

After Salvatore has thanked Meyer's parents and promised Max he'll be back soon to teach him some Neapolitan card game, Meyer leads him out on the landing, closes the door, and rests his back against it.  
“We need to talk about business,” he says, “Perhaps I can drop by after school, tomorrow. If your needs have been met by then, that is.”  
Salvatore shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Sure,” he says, and makes to walk away. He stops, mentally curses himself, walks back to Meyer, who hasn't moved a muscle.   
“It ain't like that,” he says, “I mean. It _is_. But it ain't _just_  so I can fuck broads.”  
His voice drops at the word 'fuck', and he finds himself looking at the door, worried, for some reason, that Meyer's parents might hear him talk like that.  
“I can't see why you would feel the need to explain yourself to me,” Meyer says, his voice strangely emotionless.  
“You feel like... maybe you don't approve?”  
Meyer shrugs. “Why would you care?”

Of course Salvatore fucking cares. But he doesn't say that. Instead, he crosses his arms and looks away for a moment.  
“It was my father,” he blurts out. He says it quickly, willing himself not to think about it, or he will never say it. He doesn't know _why_  he needs Meyer to know, he just knows he does, and, in a way, he knows he owes him. “My father happened to my face. He thought I bought too many presents, said there's no way I could make that much money. I ain't even spent that much, he just likes to fuck with me.”

Meyer is just staring at him, the carefully constructed cold look on his face fading ever so slightly into surprise. He hides the shock away as soon as he realizes he's showing it.  
“It happened before,” he says.  
“Yeah.”  
“I should have noticed,” Meyer murmurs. “It didn't make sense. You being so battered and bruised all the time. Who would risk harming you, knowing the kind of backlash...”  
He goes quiet for a moment, then looks up at Salvatore, his eyes cold and unreadable.  
“What are you going to do about it?” he says. There's violence in his words, however calm. He's not really asking, he's volunteering.  
“Nothing,” Salvatore says, “Sicilian kids don't fuck with their fathers. Plus, I'd just be giving my mother more grief.”  
It's plain to see that Meyer doesn't like that answer, but he nods to Salvatore anyway.  
“But thanks for the offer, little Meyer.” Salvatore adds, with a smirk.  
“There is no need for you to thank me,” Meyer says, and Salvatore gets the feeling he was going to add something but thought better of it. “I will see you tomorrow, then.”  
Salvatore nods. “See you tomorrow.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

The sky is stubbornly refusing to let any snow fall, but the temperature is low enough that the ground has frozen and icicles are hanging from the naked trees, breaking up the cold sunlight into pale rainbows.

As Meyer makes his way up to Salvatore's apartment, the only thing breaking the silence are two people yelling at each other. The building, much like the streets, seems to be still asleep, or too groggy to react.  
Salvatore is sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace when Meyer walks in, carefully filling little vials with heroine. He doesn't even look up when Meyer opens the door.

"I could have been a cop," Meyer says, dragging over a chair and sitting on it.  
"I know what your steps sound like," Salvatore answers. "Your shoes squeak."  
Meyer rises an eyebrow at that, but doesn't comment. Instead, he moves his attention to the dope.  
"Did you get a promotion?"  
"Wouldn't call it that," Salvatore grumbles, "Masseria thinks I'm such a good fucking errand boy he's got me delivering shit for him too."  
"You should be pleased. Not many people find their true calling."  
"Shut up." Salvatore mumbles. Meyer chuckles, and Salvatore finally looks up at him. It's weird, Salvatore having to tilt his head back to look at Meyer.  
"How come you're here so early?" he asks.

Now, that's a question Meyer is not going to answer. There is no possible way to tell him he's spent the night staring at the ceiling, alternating between trying to persuade himself that this had to be done and rehearsing what he was going to tell him.

He shrugs. Salvatore gives him an unconvinced look, but doesn't insist.  
"The boss asked me to look for some muscle," Salvatore says, "Ain't told me what for. Guessing maybe he wants someone to protect some trucks."  
"Will Benny and I do?"  
"We'll see. Ain't no need for him to know _who_  is doing the job."  
"He will learn about it, sooner or later."  
"I'll deal with it when it happens." Salvatore says.

Meyer wonders how he plans to do that. Will he lie? Will he give in to Masseria's orders? Or will he refuse to associate with the two of them?  
Not that Meyer would ask Salvatore to do that. Businesses is business...

"Did I ever tell you about Grodno?" Meyer suddenly says.  
Salvatore stops filling vials and looks at him. He looks like he's not sure whether to answer or not, but then he finally just shakes his head.  
"It was pretty enough, if you managed to forget people wanted you dead. Much older than anything in Manhattan."

White houses, cobbled streets, church bells ringing, the trees during fall, their leaves painted yellow and red.

"There were a lot of Jews. That is probably what always enraged me the most. There were so many of us, but nobody stood up while we were singled out and butchered. My father wasn't the only one who ran away. My father, the people of his generation, they think that's what a good Jew is supposed to do. Endure, don't give in to violence. Do not be like the thing that is causing you pain."

He's still looking at Salvatore, but can't really see him. This isn't what he meant to tell him, but the meaning is the same.

"There was one man... I don't know who he was. He was at a meeting in my grandfather's house. He knew many had left and many more were about to. He said we should fight. He said Jews _can_  fight. Even with our bare hands, we should have done it. He said: 'If you are going to die, stand up and die fighting.'"

He remembers the murmuring, the flickering of the candles, the way his father had wrapped an arm around Yetta's shoulders and looked away.

"I think about those words all the time." Meyer murmurs, then finally looks, _really_  looks, at Salvatore.  
He's staring at Meyer, eyes wide.  
"It's... it doesn't have to do with anything. I wanted to tell you." Meyer says.  
"Can I know why?" Salvatore asks, slowly.

Meyer hesitates. He crosses his arms over his chest, looks at the fire as it shivers, then back at Salvatore.  
"You've known me almost a year, you know I'm shit at this. I don't like talking about myself, it makes me feel like I'm giving something up. People have an advantage over you, if they know things about you. But you said you want us to be friends, and you told me about your father, so I'm giving you the advantage back. So now we're even."

Salvatore seems to consider Meyer's words for a moment, then makes a sound between a snort and a chuckle. Before Meyer can get mad at him, says: "No need to keep a score, little Meyer. It's only an advantage if you're giving it to a stranger. You can tell me whatever you like; your secrets are safe with me."

Oh.

He blinks at Salvatore, who's now leaning back, resting his weight on his hands, a dark curl escaping his carefully brushed hair.  
"And if nobody stands up with you, I'm gonna help you beat some piece of shit to a pulp. Ain't really give a shit what that makes _me_  like."  
Meyer just stares at him for a moment, then, even though he really doesn't mean to, he smiles.  
"That's good to know," he says, softly.

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I've been sitting on this chapter for a while, and I'm not 100% satisfied by how it came out but /o\ Sorry if it sucks /o\\)

It was bound to happen, Salvatore thinks.

His shoulders hurt from the way his arms are twisted back by the handcuffs, his ears ring, but other than that, he's completely calm. It happens. It happened. Not much he can do about it now, sitting in a jail cell, waiting to be told what's gonna happen to him.

It surprises him, the reaction he's having. He thought he would be angry, but he's just vaguely disappointed at his observation skills. The broad he sold the dope to was fidgety, wouldn't meet his eyes. He just thought buying drugs made her nervous. The thought she could rat him out never even brushed his brain.

“Salvatore!” says his mother's voice, and he jumps up, cranes his neck to look for her.  
Rosalia pushes a cop aside and marches towards the cell, grabbing the bars and looking at Salvatore's face, waiting for someone to let her in the cell.  
“What happened?” she asks, walking in, studying him as if she maybe thinks he's hurt. Her eyes are wide and scared, but what hurts Salvatore the most is that he just _knows_  she's still hoping he'll tell her he did nothing wrong, he was framed.  
But he won't lie to her. He's done lying to her.  
“I'm sorry, mamma.” he says. “You don't deserve this.”  
Rosalia doesn't say anything to that. She just closes her eyes for a moment and reaches out to touch Salvatore's cheek as a cop unlocks the door.  
“You be strong,” she says.

That's when Antonio walks in, grabs Salvatore by the hair, and pushes him against the bars.  
“Selfish little boy,” he spits, keeping Salvatore still with a hand around his throat. “We did all we could to give you anything you needed. We left all we knew to give you and your brothers and sister a better life. _This_  is what you choose to do?”  
“I do what I have to do,” Salvatore grunts, and the grip on his throat tightens.  
“Let him go!” Rosalia yells, grabbing Antonio's arm and trying to pull him off of Salvatore.  
“Go ahead,” Salvatore says, his voice hoarse, “Strangle your son in the middle of a police station, Antonio.”  
He lets go of him, but doesn't look worried, just deflated, as if Salvatore's words punched the fight right out of him. Salvatore slides on the floor, coughing.  
“You're not my son,” he says, “My son died after he arrived in America. He died, and this _thing_ ,” he spits, gesturing towards Salvatore. “This dark thing with cold eyes replaced him. You're not my son.”  
Rosalia is frozen in place, lost. She looks at her husband, then at Salvatore, then just looks away from the two of them entirely.  
Salvatore swallows, his throat burning. He looks straight at Antonio, and he's completely serious when he says: “That is the nicest thing you've ever said to me.”

Salvatore is being walked to a bus, Rosalia a few feet away from him, following him step by step from a distance, when Benny bursts out of an alley shouting Salvatore's name.  
He looks up just in time to see Meyer following him, and goes still.  
“Where are they taking you?” Meyer asks, as a cop pushes him back. When Meyer doesn't back off, the cop lifts him up and throws him on the ground.  
“ _Hey_!” shouts Salvatore, “Don't you fucking touch him!”  
Meyer gets back up. The cop tries to make him step back, but Meyer doesn't budge. “It's all right, Sal.” he says, “I'll talk to Mr Goodman. I'll take care of things. Just hold on, ok? Hold on.”  
The cops pushes Meyer to the ground again, and this time Salvatore is the one who has to be grabbed and pulled away screaming.  
He hits the floor of the bus, where someone picks him up by the back of his shirt and throws him on a seat. His heart is pounding as he watches Rosalia step between Meyer and the cop, shielding Meyer with her body and hissing something at the man. Meyer looks up at her, then at Salvatore.

He never thought of Meyer as a child, not really. He doesn't carry himself like a child. Doesn't talk or act like a child. But the way he's looking at him now, confused and desperate, makes Salvatore feel exactly how young he is.

 


	21. Chapter 21

They stand there in silence even after the cop has left, all three of them, looking in the direction in which the bus disappeared.  
“Hampton Farms,” says Salvatore's mother. Her accent is thick, her voice even.  
“Is that where Salvatore is going?” Meyer asks. Rosalia nods. “How long?” he asks, but she shakes her head.  
“You are Meyer,” she says instead. “Salvatore talks about you.”  
For some reason, those words make Meyer's eyes prickle.  
“I meant what I said.” he tells her, “I will talk to Mr Goodman and try to persuade him to let Salvatore keep his job.”  
Rosalia smiles, but it's such a weak, fragile smile. She doesn't seem to have the words to say whatever it is she's thinking, so she just leans down and presses a kiss to Meyer's cheek.  
“Thank you,” she murmurs, before turning around and starting to walk away.  
“Walk home with her,” Meyer tells Benny. “Make sure she's all right.”  
“What are you gonna do?” Benny asks, starting to walk after Rosalia.  
“Contain the damage.” Meyer says. “Meet me behind Calogero's shop in two hours. Gather the others on your way back.”  
Benny nods and trots off. Meyer stays still for a moment longer, then turns the opposite way and starts walking.

He knows what he has to do.

He needs to keep things from unraveling. He needs to make sure nothing changes while Salvatore is inside.

He doesn't need revenge, but he sure as hell wants some.

Mr Goodman's shop is empty when Meyer gets there. He takes his hat off, waits for Mr Goodman to notice him before saying: “My name is Meyer Lansky. I'm here on behalf of Salvatore.”

“He's not a bad boy,” Mr Goodman says, shaking his head. He sat down after Meyer told him what happened, flopped on a chair and rubbed his eyes, looking suddenly very tired.  
“I know,” Meyer says.  
“He just thinks he has no other choice. Plenty of young men think like that.”  
“I know.” Meyer repeats, his voice softer.  
“I will talk to his parents. Visit him as soon as I can. One of my clients is a lawyer, I will ask him what we should do to help.”  
This is not what Meyer was expecting, but he will take it all the same.  
“Thank you, Mr Goodman.”  
“Of course, the job will be here for him, when he's released.”  
“That is very kind of you.”  
“Do you want me to tell him anything?”  
Meyer hesitates. He looks at his feet for a moment, chews on the inside of his cheek.  
“Do you have some paper?” he asks.

When he finally arrives to the alley behind Calogero's shop, a dozen people are already gathered there. Nino is there, and Frank and Vito. Calogero is lingering on the doorway, dressed in his work clothes, looking worried.

"Did he look all right?" Frank asks.  
He looked scared, Meyer thinks, but he doesn't say it out loud. "He will be fine," he says, "But we need to be on the same page. All of us."  
"And what's that?" asks Vito, barely concealing his mocking tone.  
"It's when people agree on the same thing, you dumb fuck." mutters Benny.  
"Easy," Frank says, holding Vito back before he can think of jumping on Benny.  
"If we break into factions now, we're done for," Meyer says, "All the agreements we made, all the deals. They still stand. We still do our job like we would if Salvatore were here, we out put his cut aside, and when he gets out everything goes back to normal."  
"I don't think that's it," Vito says, "I think you sly little Jews want to take over now that the chance came up."  
"I have no intention of taking over," Meyer says, "My only objective is to take care of Salvatore's interests."  
"Why?" snorts Vito. "Why would _you_  care?"  
"Because I understand and value loyalty," Meyer says, his voice low, "Do you, Vito?"

Vito grins at him, shaking his head. "I say there's nothing stopping me from stepping in for Sal," he says, walking towards Meyer. Benny looks restless, like he's about to jump in. Frank puts a hand on his chest and holds him back, eyes fixed on Meyer and Vito. "What are you gonna do about it? You're just a little boy." he says, standing threateningly close to Meyer.  
"Right," Meyer says, "What am I gonna do about it."  
What he does is headbutting Vito in the face. And when Nino runs at him, he punches him in the face. He's thrown on the ground, but it hardly matters. He slams his knee into Nino's stomach, pushes him off, and climbs on him, punching him until he stops struggling and just tried to shield his face.  
"Enough?" Meyer asks. Nino nods, frantically, and Meyer gets off of him and stands up. He spits some blood on the floor, wipes his chin with his sleeve. "Anybody else?" he asks.  
Vito is holding his bleeding nose with a hand, staring knives at him, but he doesn't say a thing.  
"Nothing changes," Meyer repeats, "We keep doing what we have always done until Salvatore is back. Is that clear?"  
There's a general muttering of agreement, and that's good enough for Meyer. If any problems come up, he'll deal with them.

  
  


 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, here we go: warning for homophobia, sexual harassment, misgendering, abuse of a position of power, along with the usual violence /o\

There isn't a single bone in his body, a single muscle, that doesn't ache. Salvatore plops on his hard, uncomfortable bed and wishes he could just fall asleep; but even though he's exhausted, sleep doesn't come.

The sun hasn't gone down yet, not completely. Darkness falls slowly. Salvatore closes his eyes and tries to ignore the throbbing pain in his ribs, where he got kicked for not working fast enough. He doesn't even have it in him to look for a more comfortable position.

He wonders what Meyer is doing.

 

*

  
  


“Lucania,” a guard calls out.  
Salvatore lets go of one of the rocks he'd been carrying, he looks up panting, lungs burning.  
“You got a visitor,” he says.  
Salvatore frowns, making his way through the soft earth.

It's not going to be his parents, that he knows, nor his siblings, for that matter.   
“Hey, Sally,” someone laughs. Salvatore keeps walking and tries to ignore the whistles. He's already got enough problems, between the guards and the inmates who do _not_  just limit themselves to whistles, to lose his temper now.

The way Mr Goodman smiles when he sees him makes Salvatore feel so guilty he wants to turn around and just leave. He tries to smile back, sits down on the other side of a little table.  
“You look well,” Mr Goodman says, but he's never been a good liar, and Salvatore can see he's just saying it to make him feel better.  
“I'm glad to see you,” Salvatore says, “Listen, Mr Goodman, I'm so sorry I...”  
“No, no, no,” Mr Goodman says, shooing Salvatore's words away with a hand, “It's done. There's nothing you can do about it now, so there's no use in worrying.”  
Salvatore nods, looking away.  
“I've talked to a lawyer, he said if you behave yourself there's a good chance your sentence will be reduced. He said if I were to testify for you character, that could help, so I'll do that.”  
“That's... I don't know what to say.”  
“No need to say anything. I know you're a good boy, Salvatore. I know you're doing your best.”

Salvatore may be doing his best, but definitely not the way someone respectable like Mr Goodman would. If he knew, Mr Goodman, if he _really_  knew. To say he would not approve would be the understatement of the century.

“Your friend came to see me,” Mr Goodman says.  
“My friend?”  
“Meyer,”  
“Oh,” Salvatore says, finally looking up, “How is he?”  
Mr Goodman grins. “Determined,” he says. “He was worried I'd fire you. And...”   
“Time's up,” a guard says, “Back to work.”  
“He sends you this,” Mr Goodman says,loweing his voice as he rummages through his pockets. He slips a folded piece of paper into Salvatore's hand.  
“I said _back to work_ ,” the man insists, glaring at Salvatore.  
“I heard you,” Salvatore mutters, but the man grabs him by his shirt and pulls him away anyway. Salvatore lets him, shooting Mr Goodman an apologetic look.

 

*

  
  


“Was that your boyfriend, Sally?” comes a whisper, right next to Salvatore's ear. It makes a shiver run down his spine, but he keeps his head low. He keeps walking. “You like them that old? I ain't got a chance, guys,” there's a burst of laughter behind him. Salvatore leaves his tray and marches off towards the cell blocks.

He wishes he could have met these assholes out in the streets. They don't know how lucky they are, surrounded by guards. Back in New York, Salvatore wouldn't have hesitated making them swallow their tongue.

“Come on, Sally. Pay attention to me.”  
It's not the words that make Salvatore freeze, it's the fact the guy that's been walking beside him reaches out and gropes his ass.  
“Touch me again, I'll break all of your fucking fingers,” Salvatore hisses.  
“He's so cute when he gets angry,” someone else comments, and Salvatore turns to see another two guys circling him.  
“I say he'd look cuter with a cock in his mouth,” the first guy says, the one who's been calling him Sally and following him around.  
“Let's give it a look, then,” the other answers, grabbing Salvatore's arms and trying to trap them behind his back.  
“Get the _fuck_  off of me!” Salvatore snaps.   
He's taller and heavier than him, the guy. But to Salvatore, that only means when he slams his head back, pain exploding into his skull, it crashes straight into the guy's mouth.  
He'd almost picked Salvatore off the ground, and when he lets go of him to bring his hands to his face, Salvatore stumbles forward. He slips, but manages not to fall.  
“Our Sally's a feisty one,” the other guy laughs. But other inmates are starting to pour into the corridor, now, so he just gives his companions a look and walks away.

“Don't think this is over, Sally. I like me a broad with some fight in her.” he says.

 

*

  
  


“You look like you're having a bad time,” Salvatore's cell mate comments.  
“Fuck off,” Salvatore says.  
“That just proves my point,” he grins.  
The guy's name is Johnny something. He hasn't exactly been _ignoring_ Salvatore, but he hasn't given him any shit either. So far, at least.  
“Sorry,” Salvatore mutters, plopping on his bed. The back of his head is throbbing. He's going to have a hell of a headache...

“Lights out!” a guard yells, though there's no electricity in Hampton Farms, and the shout only serves as a warning to the inmates to shut up.  
There's a full moon, and a frail light is pouring in from the tiny window high up the wall. It's enough to make up the shapes around Salvatore, but when Salvatore unfolds Meyer's message, he can't read a word.  
“Johnny,” he whispers, “You got a light?”  
“I got matches,” Johnny says. He gropes for Salvatore's hand and stuffs the box on his palm. “You should hurry up.”  
“Thanks,” Salvatore answers.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness of the match and put the words into focus.

The page has been ripped off a notebook. Meyer's handwriting is slow and deliberate, almost carved into the paper.

  
  


'Do not let emotions cloud your judgment.   
Think twice. Take care of yourself.  
  
There is no need for you to worry about eventual changes.   
I will see to it that nobody gets any ideas.  
  
M'

  
  


Salvatore reads the whole things three times before the light goes out. He stays still, sitting on his bed, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat.

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so, I've read and re-read this chapter, tried to write in a different way, but I'm still worried someone may read what happens as a threat of sexual violence to the woman involved. It wasn't *meant* as such, but I know everybody reads things differently, so I decided to warn you guys before the chapter, just in case.

Meyer feels like he's walking underwater. Reality has had its edges dulled, its corners burned like an old photograph.

There's an overflowing kind of anger stuck in his ribcage. It's been there for a few weeks, churning, boiling. He wrote Salvatore to think before he acts. Meyer needs him to be patient. But he's finding it so hard to do the same himself, to follow his own advice.

“You all right?” asks Frank, who's standing behind Meyer. He speaks softly, in a whisper meant exclusively for Meyer.  
“I'm perfectly fine,” Meyer hisses. He doesn't mean to, and Frank hardly deserves it, but Meyer's ears are ringing and his hands itch to hit something.

The girl Nino and Calogero drag into the alley is small, blonde, and twitchy. When Nino lets go of her, he leaves behind a handcuff of bruises on her thin wrist.

She's alone between all of them. Calogero and Nino blocking her escape on one side, Frank and Benny standing behind Meyer. They face each other like gladiators, the girl and Meyer.

“I have put a lot of thought into this,” Meyer says. Think. One word after the other. Master yourself.  
He uncurls his fists, flexes his fingers. “I'm of the opinion we can settle this problems like civilized people...”  
“Look, it was nothing personal,” the girl starts saying.  
“Quiet.” Meyer snaps.  
He can see Calogero, who's been shifting his weight from one foot to the other, flinch at his tone. Too cold, Meyer thinks, too rough. He breathes in.  
“The last thing I want to do is cause harm to someone who cannot fight back. Not to mention I find hitting women to be reprehensible. I'm trying to be kind to you,” even though she's the one who talked, Meyer tries not to think, even though she's the reason why Salvatore is behind bars.  
“You will leave New York. Where you go and what happens to you is no concern of mine. Leave, and don't come back. I want you to listen carefully. You may think I don't look like much, but if there is something I have learned, it's that it takes a lot less than what most people imagine, to break someone's bones.”

Meyer catches himself thinking that she's taken something from him. She stole from him. The thought is there and gone in the blink of an eye.

“I may not approve of harming someone in your position, but that doesn't mean that I won't do it if the situation calls for it. If you're still in New York after Friday, I will put all kindness aside. Do _not_  test me.”

She's standing up straight, now, looking defiantly at Meyer. She's got guts, Meyer has to admit that.  
But in the end, she looks away. “Friday?” she murmurs.  
“Friday,” Meyer repeats.  
The girl nods and shoots Meyer one last look before turning away, hugging herself, and waiting for Calogero and Nino to let her walk past.

“You're too nice,” Benny grumbles, crossing his arms.  
“That's still to be seen,” Meyer says.

  
  


*

 

Hours later, during dinner, the world hasn't started looking any more real yet.  
Meyer pokes at his food with a fork and tries to ignore the feeling he's not the one who decided to do that, the feeling his body has now taken over while his brain took a step back.  
“Is everything all right, my love?” Yetta asks, touching Meyer's shoulder. Meyer feels himself freeze. He hopes his mother doesn't notice.  
“I'm just not that hungry,” Meyer murmurs.  
“You haven't been eating a lot, lately.” Max says.  
Meyer would like to be able to contraddict him, but if he's completely honest, he can't remember whether that's actually the case or not.  
Yetta leans in and presses her lips to Meyer's forehead for a moment. “You don't feel warm...” she says, but still looks worried.  
“I'm probably just tired.” Meyer says.  
Max looks like he's about to say something, and Meyer finds himself feeling that if he does hear whatever Max has to say he will probably flip the table and start shouting. Instead, he stands up so abruptly Max's mouth snaps shut.  
“I'm going to lie down,” he says, and marches off to the bedroom.

It's been almost a whole month since Salvatore was dragged to Hampton Farms.

Meyer knows there's something strange in the way he's reacting to Salvatore's absence. He knows being apart from someone shouldn't hurt so much. And it isn't like Sal is fucking dead; he's going to be out soon enough.

But Meyer made the mistake of asking about Hampton Farms to someone he knew had been to a reformatory. What he was told was that the moment the guy was told he was _not_  going to Hampton Farms was the best moment of his life. After that, Meyer hasn't been able to gather the courage to go talk to Mr Goodman yet.

He kicks his shoes off, flops on the bed.

The window is open. From time to time, the smells of rain reaches him.

He wonders how long it will take Mr Goodman to get Salvatore out of there, but he doesn't dare hoping it will happen in time for summer. He doesn't even want to _think_  about Salvatore spending the whole summer in that damn place.

Meyer sighs, watching the rain fall outside the window. When Yetta whispers his name and asks him if he's awake, Meyer doesn't answer.

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sexual assault (though not one the assailant would consider 'successful'), suggested dub-con.

Salvatore's lip is split, his knees scratched and bleeding. He took a shower once he was done scrubbing the floors, but it was too quick, too cold, and his hair is still wet.  
“You don't look too well,” Johnny says, when Salvatore lets himself fall on his bed.  
Salvatore doesn't answer. He flexes his legs, and he can almost feel his knees creak like the rusty hinges of a door.  
“Guards or inmates?” Johnny asks.

Salvatore looks up at him. He's bigger than him, but then again, Salvatore isn't exactly an imposing guy. He looks placid enough, but Salvatore has noticed the way the other inmates part when he walks down the corridors, the way their voices get lower and their eyes look away.

“Guards,” Salvatore says, pointing at his knees, “Inmates.” he adds, pointing at his face.  
“You should try making friends,” Johnny says.  
“I ain't a friendly man.” Salvatore says.  
“Friends can be useful,” Johnny insists, “With the right friends, no inmate in the farms would touch you.”  
It sounds, to Salvatore, more like an exchange of some sort than an actual friendship.  
“I don't need friends.”  
“ _Everybody_  needs friends,” Johnny chuckles, “And for someone like you, it ain't gonna be hard, finding some.”  
“Someone like me,” Salvatore repeats.  
“You're very pretty.” Johnny says, giving him an eloquent look.  
“I see.” Salvatore says. “I need that kind of friends even less than any other.”  
Johnny shrugs, “I'm just giving you some free advice.”  
“Sounds more like an offer to me.”  
He smirks at Salvatore, Johnny, shrugs again. “Sucking dick from time to time isn't as bad as getting the shit kicked out of you on a daily basis.”  
Salvatore snorts. “Right. Well, thanks for the offer, but fuck no.”  
Johnny holds up his hands in surrender. “I'm just saying,” he says.  
Salvatore flops on the bed and turns his back to him.

  
  


His arms feel like they're going to fall off.

He's been breaking rocks all morning with a group of maybe fifteen inmates. He's not sure what he's done to deserve it, but when the rest of the group moved on to something else, one of the guards had grabbed Salvatore and ordered him to carry the bits of smashed rock away on his own. He only let him go once the sun started going down.   
Salvatore had secretly hoped the calluses on his hands meant he wouldn't come back to his cell bleeding again, but it looks like he's been hoping in vain.  
He's not even in pain; his hands and arms keep throbbing dully, almost numb. Tomorrow... tomorrow he'll find out how much he hurt himself.

“Hey, Sally,” someone says, as Salvatore is walking around the building that houses the cells to get to the entrance, and Salvatore freezes.   
It's a mistake, he knows. He should have kept on walking. Stopping is as good as an explicit acknowledgment.   
“How's it going, Sally?” asks one of his usual tormenters, the one Salvatore headbutted in the mouth a few weeks before.   
“Fuck off,” Salvatore says.  
“Now, now...” the guy says, resting a hand on Salvatore's waist. Salvatore jumps back, and the guy laughs. He grabs Salvatore again, almost lifting him off the floor. Salvatore struggles against his grip, but he's tired and weak, and he can't push the guy off. The guy slams him against the wall, and for a moment Salvatore can't breathe.   
“Get the fuck off me...” Salvatore hisses, and the guy answers by twisting Salvatore's arms behind his back.  
“Stay still,” he says.

Salvatore slams his heel against the guy's toes, hard, hoping the battered shoes they've been given will make it so the guy feels every single ounce of Salvatore's weight.  
His assailant howls and jumps back. Salvatore almost crumples on the floor, but forces himself up. He turns around, pressing his back to the wall and looking at the corner of the building. He's not sure he'll manage to run far enough before he's caught, but the guy is still holding his foot, so Salvatore lets go of the wall and runs.

He's grabbed by the hair and thrown on the floor. He lands hard on his side, and the guy is on him in a heartbeat. Salvatore manages to turn on his back, and, as the guy tries to get him to stop squirming, Salvatore jabs both his thumbs into his eyes. The guy screams and tries to get out of his reach, but he still tries to keep Salvatore pinned down. His hand goes for Salvatore's throat, but his eyes are watering and he misjudges the distance, pressing his hand against Salvatore's face and pushing his head down against the ground. The thump is hard enough Salvatore sees stars, but the guy's hand is against his mouth, so, of course, he bites down as hard as he can. He tastes blood in his mouth, and the guy finally lets go of him, spitting out curses.

Salvatore crawls backwards. The first time he drags himself up, he falls back on his knees. His head is spinning, and the walk back to his cell seems to take forever, but he gets there. Nobody stops him, nobody grabs him, nobody even talks to him.

He's aching all over, covered in dirt, and he's pretty sure the side of his face is scratched pink. He touches the back of his head, but his hand was already bloody, so he's not sure if he's bleeding or not.

' _Just hold on, ok?_ ' Meyer had said.  
Salvatore kicks off his shoes and curls up on his bed, closing his eyes.  
“Don't let emotions cloud your judgment,” he whispers, “Think twice. Take care of yourself.”  
What would Meyer do, if he were in Salvatore's place?  
He would fight back, viciously, with no mercy.  
But what if fighting back wasn't enough? What if there were too many people to fight?  
Salvatore knows what Meyer would tell him to do. He would tell him to do whatever is necessary to survive.

  
  


“You look even worse than usual,” Johnny says, and he almost looks genuinely worried. Salvatore doesn't buy it for a moment.  
He works in the laundry, Johnny, which, to Salvatore, reinforces the feeling something about him is dangerous enough to make even the guards uneasy.  
“You should probably see the nurse.”  
As if the guards give enough of a fuck to let Salvatore do that.

Salvatore has thought about what to say all night, but now that he's here, he finds the words won't come out.  
Instead, he walks up to Johnny and carefully, painfully, gets on his knees.  
“I don't know how to do this,” Salvatore finally says.  
Johnny's surprised expression fades soon enough. “It just takes a bit of practice,” he says.  
Salvatore looks away from him.

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, sorry about that /o\

It's pouring when Meyer runs into Mr Goodman's shop, soaked to the bone.  
“Sorry to barge in like this,” Meyer says, “I was told you have news.”  
Mr Goodman refuses to answer until Meyer sits down and he can wrap him up in a big, scratchy towel.  
“I talked to the judge again, and to several other people,” he says, while they're both sitting in the back and he's busy making Meyer some hot cocoa, “I was told Salvatore is going to come out of Hampton Farms some time next month.”  
Meyer's heart seems to jump in his throat and securely lodge itself there. It takes him a few moments to whisper: “Is this for sure?”  
“It is. The day is yet to be decided, but...”  
“Mr Goodman,” Meyer says, trying to get his voice to work properly again, “I would like you to know how grateful I am for everything you've done for Salvatore...”  
“You like him a lot, don't you?” Mr Goodman says, softly.

Meyer closes his mouth, he looks at his feet for a moment.  
“Friends are harder to come by than people seem to believe,” he finally says, “I'm not talking about those acquaintances of whom you know name and last name and maybe even a few things more. I'm talking about people you would trust no matter what.”

People you would kill for, he thinks, but doesn't say out loud. People who would kill for you. People who would stand between you and the barrel of a gun without thinking twice about it.

“I understand,” Mr Goodman says.  
Meyer doubts that. It seems somewhat improbable, that Mr Goodman would feel, about anyone, the way Meyer feels about Salvatore. He doesn't think he would _ache_  the way Meyer does.

“I, hm. I would appreciate it if you could inform me of an eventual date, so that I can...”  
“Of course,” Mr Goodman says.  
“Thank you,” Meyer says, again.  
“I'm going to see him as soon as I can. Is there anything you'd like me to tell him?”  
Meyer shakes his head. “I wouldn't know what to tell him,” he says.  
 _I don't know how to make it better_ , he thinks. He doesn't know what Salvatore needs, what would help.  
"This situation can't be easy for you," Mr Goodman says, handing Meyer a cup, "Not a lot of people would have been there for Salvatore, in your place."  
"Why is that?"  
"Mostly, it's about the stigma, I think," Mr Goodman says.

Meyer wants to laugh at that, so he takes a sip of cocoa instead.  
Salvatore could have shot someone in front of him and Meyer would still be swearing about his innocence.  
The stigma. Most likely, Sal's time at Hampton Farms will be seen as a badge of honor by the people they deal with. Meyer's worries are hardly of a moral nature.  
He just wants him to be all right. He wants him to be safe. He wants him somewhere he can reach him, somewhere Meyer could _do something_  if Salvatore needed him to.

  
  


Next month, Meyer thinks, on his way back home.  
It's still raining hard enough that Meyer couldn't see where the hell he was going, so he's taken refuge in a doorway and he's staring at the gray sky, clouds shifting and slithering like living things, lightning exploding between their folds, sometimes extending their tendrils towards the earth, incandescent in shades of purple and blue.

What will Meyer say to Salvatore, when he sees him? Will Sal be all right to begin with? Will he have changed? Will he be distant?

The street is completely empty, apart from Meyer, and he stands there, leaning against the green door, feeling, and not knowing why, incredibly nervous.

Whatever happens, whatever _has_  happened, Meyer will deal with it.  
The way he dealt with Salvatore's absence. The way he dealt with his father's incompetence. The way he's always dealt with any obstacle life decided to slam in his way.  
If Salvatore needs time, Meyer will make sure he gets time. If he needs anything else, Meyer will see to that.

Thunder breaks. The wind slams waves of rain against the buildings.

Meyer wonders when exactly he started thinking like this, when exactly he started thinking it's the two of them against the world.

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: dub-con, attempted non-con, disassociation, violence, blood, and murder.

“Just a week,” Salvatore murmurs, feeling numb.  
“Yes,” Mr Goodman says, smiling. He looks around to see if the guard is watching, then holds Salvatore's hands in his. “You'll see, you'll be out in the blink of an eye.”  
Salvatore doubts that. He can already feel time slow to a crawl. But he forces himself to smile at Mr Goodman and squeeze the older man's hands.  
“Thank you for all you've done for me,” Salvatore says.  
Mr Goodman shakes his head, shoos Salvatore's words away with a hand.  
“I came straight here to tell you. I will have to let your friend Meyer know, as well.”

Salvatore tries to ignore the way his stomach twists at Meyer's name.  
“How is he?” he asks, softly.  
“Worried.” Mr Goodman answers, “Determined,” he adds, with a chuckle.  
Salvatore smirks at that.

Back in his cell, he wonders if Meyer misses him.  
He doesn't know exactly when it happened, but it took Hampton Farms for him to realize Meyer's absence feels like a hole carved in his chest. He got so used to his presence, so used to the way Meyer speaks and thinks and acts, he got so in tune with him, that being on his own feels like some part of him is missing.

Salvatore fidgets with the piece of paper Meyer sent him. He doesn't unfold it, there's no need for that. One week.  
Will Meyer be waiting for him when he gets back to New York?

  
  


“I'm going to miss having you around,” Johnny says, when Salvatore comes back to their cell after work.  
Salvatore grunts in acknowledgement. He doesn't know who told Johnny. He certainly had no intention of doing it.

Salvatore has been thinking a lot about Johnny, about their deal.  
He feels peculiarly neutral towards the act itself, the getting on his knees and sucking Johnny's dick whenever he's feeling like it. He thought it would be less tollerable than it is, but after a while, it just became an automatic action, possibly the least sexual thing he's ever done in his life. At least on his part.

It's not _that_  that makes Salvatore's hands prickle.

It's how sweet and considerate Johnny pretends to be. It's the fact he talks like he's oh so much better than those pieces of shit who tried to force themselves on Salvatore; like giving him the choice between being beaten daily and sucking his dick was an act of kindness. It's the fact he's got an advantage over Salvatore, and he used it to get what he wanted out of him.

There was no kindness in Johnny's offer to Salvatore, and Salvatore is fully aware of that.

“What do you say we celebrate, the two of us?” Johnny says. He grabs Salvatore and pulls him closer.  
“Depends,” Salvatore says, “What's in it for me?”  
“I'll make sure you like it,” Johnny says.  
Salvatore lifts an eyebrow at him. “I can't see you sucking _my_  dick, in all honesty.”  
“I was thinking of something else,” Johnny murmurs, making to kiss Salvatore's neck. Salvatore pushes him off.  
“We'll see,” he says.  
“I like it when you play hard to get,” Johnny grins.

  
  


As Salvatore had predicted, the days go by slowly.

The guards still fuck with him, but he learned how to avoid catching their attention. He found all the best hiding places, and when he's not working, he's either just napping somewhere, or patiently sharpening the end of a spoon in one of the bathrooms.

He walks around feeling detached from his surroundings. He's been at the farms for months, but he suddenly feels like a guest, like someone passing through.

He stays away from Johnny as much as he can. He knows eventually he'll have to go back to his cell for the night, but there's not much Johnny can demand of him in their cell, considering guards pass by every ten minutes or so.

But the day before he leaves. The day before he leaves, Salvatore is _constantly_  around. And he's so nice to Johnny, too. He shows up in the laundry, Salvatore, grabs Johnny's dick through his pants.  
“How about that celebration, then?” he says.  
“Now?” Johnny asks, eagerly.  
Salvatore snorts. “Not _here_. Are you nuts?”  
Johnny sighs, he puts his hand on top of Salvatore's to spur him on.  
“The guards let you use the showers during work hours, right?” Salvatore says. “I think you should ask for some privacy.”

  
  


Locked in the bathroom stall, Salvatore stares at the ceiling.

He's not new to violence. He's not new to hurting people.  
He has always, _always_ , done what he had to.

He grabs the now sharp spoon and hides it in his sleeve, then marches out towards the showers.

  
  


Most of what comes after that is confused. Salvatore feels like the ground he's walking on suddenly became soft, like he's watching something happen from far away.  
He watches himself hide the spoon in the showers and go back to work.  
He watches himself mix cement and painstakingly build a short wall.  
He watches himself walk to the showers and take off his clothes.  
He watches himself as Johnny guides him against the wall and tells him to spread his legs.  
He watches himself fish the spoon from inside a little hole between bricks and turn around.  
He watches himself stab Johnny over and over again.

It's only after he's done that that he suddenly comes back to himself again. The shower is on, there's blood on the white tiles, and Salvatore is breathing hard. He closes his eyes for a moment, throws his head back and breathes in deeply.

Now.

Back to work.

He washes himself up carefully, leaves his weapon on the floor. He takes great care in drying himself up and getting dressed. He doesn't look at Johnny's body once before leaving.

  
  


Salvatore has been back to his cell for at least an hour when people start screaming, and the block goes on lockdown. He's exhausted, but feels like electricity is running through his veins.  
“Hey,” he shouts to the inmate in the cell in front of his. He's one of the guys who used to fuck with him, the one he almost blinded the very last time anybody tried to assault him. “What happened?”  
“Someone did in your boyfriend,” the guy says.  
His hair is lighter than Salvatore ever noticed, somewhere between blond and brown. Blue eyes, one of those pretty up-turned noses.  
“The fuck are you looking at, Sally?” the guy snorts.  
“You,” Salvatore says. “I want to make sure I remember you.”  
The guy looks at him, and for a moment, the color drains from his face.

  
  


There's a lot of coming and goings, during the night, but Salvatore made sure he wasn't missed during his work hours, and he was back to his cell early enough to be seen by many guards. If any of the inmates suspects him, they don't risk putting themselves in danger to declare it.

It's a cold night, and Salvatore sleeps very little. He thinks of Manhattan, of the snow falling out of the window of his apartment, of roasted chestnuts and hot coffee. He thinks of Meyer's sharp, dark eyes.

When he wakes up, the grounds are covered in snow, but from time to time the sun shines through and everything glitters. He's given the clothes he had on when he was caught, spring clothes, and shivers all the way through the farms to the bus that will take him back home.

He doesn't look back. The sooner he forgets everything about this fucking place, the better.

 


	27. Chapter 27

Meyer's breath comes out in puffs of white. He's standing at the bus stop, holding one of Jake's coats against his chest like a shield, trying not to pace.

The cold woke him up, so early it was basically still night. Everything was completely quiet in the building. The way the distant bark of a dog echoed told Meyer that, while he slept, the world had been covered in snow.  
Curled up in his bed, shivering, the only thing Meyer could think of was that Salvatore had been sent to Hampton Farms in April.

That picture of him, being dragged away as he screamed at a cop to leave Meyer alone, has been burned into Meyer's brain for months. He wasn't even wearing a jacket.

As Meyer got dressed, he couldn't stop thinking about Salvatore coming back to New York in his light spring clothes, shaking like a leaf.

Meyer sighs. He started pacing and didn't even really notice.  
He's already dug a tidy little path since he arrived, and keeps following it instinctively, over and over.

Will Salvatore be different from the last time Meyer saw him? Will he be _visibly_  different?  
Meyer isn't naive enought to think spending time in prison, even an American prison, even a prison for underage kids, won't have had any effect on Salvatore. He just hopes it's not as bad as he's been dreading.

He almost flinches when the bus pops into view at the end of the street. A few people come out of the bus, every single one of them making Meyer's heart pound against his ribcage.  
When Salvatore finally shows up, Meyer's throat gets tight.   
He looks thinner, sharper at the edges; his eyes look a little colder, his lips set in a severe line.  
Flecks of ice flicker all around him. It's not snow, Meyer knows; the day is just so frigid the moisture in the air froze, and the wind keeps making it twirl around, shimmering when it catches the light. Diamond dust, they call it. It gets trapped in Salvatore's hair as he walks down onto the street and notices Meyer, his eyes going wide for a moment. He smiles so brightly, so warmly, Meyer doesn't even have the time to feel self-conscious enough not to smile back.

“Hello, little Meyer,” he says, as he walks up to him. Meyer is about to answer, but Salvatore doesn't stop walking when he reaches an acceptable personal distance between the two of them, he walks straight into Meyer and throws his arms around him, squeezing him tight, pressing his face against the crook of Meyer's neck.  
He's not used to it. Meyer is not used to anybody holding him like that, like they have no intention of ever letting him go. But Salvatore's nose is cold against his skin, and when Meyer wraps an arm around him, the other one busy holding the coat, Salvatore feels so _fragile_.  
“Are you all right?” Meyer asks, against Salvatore's shoulder.   
“I'm good, now.” he answers, and reluctantly moves away. “Fucking cold, though.”   
“Here,” Meyer says, handing him the coat. “Frank and Benny are waiting for us at the diner on Calogero's street.”  
“Ain't gonna freeze their asses for me, uh?” Salvatore says, lightly, and grins.  
“I told them I needed some time alone with you,” Meyer says. “I wanted to make sure you were... in the mood to see people.”  
“People, I don't know about. But I ain't gonna say no to friends.”  
“Good,” Meyer murmurs.

His tone, the way he's looking at Meyer, almost makes Meyer's worries fade away. Almost. “Let's go, then, Sal.”  
“Charlie.” Salvatore says.  
“Uh?”  
“I think I like it better,” he says, looking at his feet and blushing, “It's more American. Don't you like it?”  
He gives Meyer a quick, hesitant look. Meyer is sure there is more to this decision, but he's not going to investigate, not now.  
“Charlie,” he repeats, tasting the sound against his tongue. “It's a good name.”

  
  


 


	28. Chapter 28

Charlie has to stop several times as he climbs up the fire escape, sweating, head spinning. He plops down on the steps outside Meyer's window to catch his breath, hugs himself, tries to keep his teeth from chattering.

It's the middle of the day, but it's so dark it may just as well be night; clouds cover the sky, lead-colored and plump. The light inside Meyer's room is of a whole other kind: it's warm, golden candle-light.

Meyer is sitting on his bed, frowning at a book. From where he is, Charlie can see all the way across the house, through the dark room in the middle, where Meyer's parents sleep at night, to the kitchen on the other side of the house, where Yetta is walking past the doorway holding a basket filled with freshly washed clothes.

Charlie rests his forehead agaist the wall for a moment. Meyer turns the page.  
He should leave, Charlie thinks, but the thought of the descent makes his head spin. Slowly, then, one step at a time. He gets up, and Meyer must spot movement in his peripheral vision, because he lifts his head an looks straight to Charlie.

“I have to admit,” Meyer says, opening the window and leaning out, “I cannot, for the love of me, understand this deeply rooted loathing of doors you have.”  
“What can I tell you, I like to be unique in everything I do.” Charlie answers, voice muffled by the scarf around his mouth.  
“Come in. You'll freeze your ass off.” Meyer steps aside, he holds out a hand to help Charlie in.

Charlie doesn't wait for an invitation to sit on Meyer's bed, mostly because a wave of nausea is washing through him and dots of light have started swimming in front of his eyes.  
“Are you all right?” Meyer asks.  
“Yeah,” Charlie mutters.  
But by the time he answers Meyer has already taken off Charlie's hat and pressed a hand to his forehead.  
“You're clammy,” he says, suspiciously.  
Charlie shrugs. “I just climbed up, I'm sweating.”  
“And shaking like a leaf,” Meyer snorts, “Take your coat off.”  
Charlie obeys, shivers running down his whole body, stinging like needles. Meyer takes his coat and scarf and throws a heavy blanket on him.  
“For a smart man, you think very little.” Meyer says. “What are you going wandering around in this weather?”  
“I was coming here,” Charlie says, as if that explained everything. Truth is, now that he's sitting there, he's not focusing as hard as he was before. Things are becoming pretty confused.  
Meyer sighs and pushes him down, fixing the blanket around him.

Charlie must have fallen asleep, because when he opens his eyes next, Jake is asleep in his own bed, and the already feeble light outside has disappeared completely.   
Meyer is sitting next to Charlie, still reading by candlelight. Charlie feels uncomfortable in his own body, as if his insides have shifted around when he wasn't paying attention. His bones ache, his clothes feel scratchy and almost painful against hi skin. He feels tender, boiling hot.  
He presses his forehead to Meyer's side and closes his eyes again, spiraling down into a weird amalgamation of dreams and reality.

The next day, he wakes up to the sounds of plates being set on the table and the smell of something cooking. Meyer fell asleep sitting down, the book still open in his lap. Charlie stays completely still for a moment, listening to Meyer's regular breathing. He'd like to reach out and hug him, press himself against him. He doesn't know where that need comes from, and tries not to think too hard about it.

He sits up, trying to do it as gently as he can, but Meyer still jumps, opening his eyes and looking around.  
“Sorry,” Charlie says.  
Meyer grunts and stretches, he presses a hand to the back of his neck and massages it a little. The position he's slept in couldn't have been a comfortable one.  
“How are you feeling?” he asks, voice thick with sleep, reaching out and touching Charlie's forehead again.  
“All right,” Charlie says.  
“You're still warm,” Meyer says.   
“Sorry I stole your bed.” Charlie murmurs.  
“Oh, good,” Yetta says, walking into the room, “You're both awake.”

She walks closer, leans down and presses her lips to Charlie's forehead. Charlie feels himself blush, but Yetta doesn't seem to notice.  
“Do you think you can walk to the kitchen?” she asks, combing Charlie's hair back with a hand, “Lunch is ready. You need to eat something.”  
“I can walk,” Charlie says, his voice a little tight.   
Yetta smiles at him, says something in Yiddish to Meyer, who nods and rubs his eyes.

Max isn't home for lunch. Charlie can't eat that much, but forces himself to try. He doesn't want to disappoint Yetta, and he feels guilty he invaded her house like that. Still, he's so weak that walking across the small apartment squeezes all the air from his lungs and makes his knees shake.  
“It happens,” Meyer says, when Charlie comes out of the bathroom on the landing. “If you go through a period of distress, you push yourself forward as long as you can, and the moment you relax a little your body gives up.”  
“I'm fine,” Charlie insists, but he's aware of the fact he's not incredibly convincing, wrapped up as he is in a big blanket, only his face peeping out.  
Meyer grins at him. “Go back to bed, you idiot.”

Yetta is sitting on a chair next to the bed, when Charlie wakes up. The room is so small her knees press against the side of the bed, but she doesn't seem to mind. She's mending something, a shirt maybe, working quietly and carefully.  
She looks up when Charlie stirs, smiles at him.  
“You scared Meyer,” she says.  
“Sorry,” Charlie answers, guiltily.  
“How are you feeling now?”  
“Weak, but better.” Charlie says. He's not shaking anymore, nor breaking into cold sweats. He still feels like sleeping for a whole week, though.  
Yetta nods. She stops mending, rests her hands on her lap. “Can I ask you something?”  
She waits for Charlie to nod before continuing.   
“Why did you come here?” she asks. Her frown is so much like Meyer's, her eyes too, the inquisitive, piercing way they move around Charlie's face. “You have family in New York. Why not go to them?”  
Charlie looks away. “It wasn't my intention to bother...”  
“Oh, no, no,” Yetta says, “It's not about that. You are welcome in this house, you know that.”  
Still, Charlie fidgets with the covers, feeling like an intruder, like a weight.  
“It just seems to me that when you're feeling unwell, the thing you crave for is to be back home.”

Home.

He pictures a room just like this, his siblings sleeping around him; he pictures his mother humming Sicilian songs as she cooks. He pictures Antonio sitting at the table, pictures the way he used to look at Charlie.

And then he pictures Meyer the way he looked from outside the frost-encrusted window, the shape his eyebrows make when he's focused on something, the way his eyes looked when he turned towards Charlie, so very dark and warm of a warmth very few people are graced with.

“Yes,” Charlie says, still looking at his hands.  
“My son is very fond of you,” Yetta says. She says it slowly, as if wanting her words to sink in properly.  
Charlie finds himself smiling. “He's a good kid.”  
Yetta doesn't answer to that. When Charlie looks up, she's lost in thought, eyes observing the snow falling out of the window.

 


	29. Chapter 29

There's a pot bubbling on the kitchen, the smell of whatever Yetta is cooking filling the room, the sound of dishes being washed and set to dry. The window all the way to the other side of the house has been left open so air the rooms, and there's a not uncomfortable chill in the air around them.  
Meyer is doodling on the edge of his notebook, chin resting on his head, numbers and rules and exceptions blurring inside his head.

He wonders if Yetta senses his lack of focus, because she wipes her hands on her apron and sits in front of him, slowly massaging her aching hands.  
“How is your friend feeling?” she asks, flexing her fingers.  
Meyer drops his pencil and forces himself not to shrug.  
“He's feeling better,” he says, but his tone doesn't even manage to persuade _him_.

Meyer's fears have not come true. Charlie isn't distant, he isn't cold. But he _has_  changed.

Charlie will joke with Meyer just like he's always done, he'll talk to him and tease him like he's always done. But he will also flinch at every noise. Sometimes, the blood drains from his face for no reason Meyer can point out.  
He still takes naps near Meyer while he's busy studying or counting money or planning something, but his naps are of a different quality, now: he falls asleep deeply and suddenly, as if he spent his nights awake. And he has nightmares. Meyer knows what nightmares look like from the outside. The quick intakes of breath, the goosebumps, the hairs sticking up, the sweat. He never knows if he should wake Charlie up or not, when he's having a nightmare.

“You're worried about him.” Yetta says. It's not a question. There aren't a lot of things Yetta doesn't know with near-absolute certainty.  
“Yes,” Meyer admits.  
“It can't have been easy.”  
“I know.”  
“Has he talked about it at all?”

Meyer shakes his head.  
To tell the truth, Charlie acts like Hampton Farms never happened. He doesn't even mention it. He avoids the subject, and blatantly changes the subject when people bring it up.

“He will probably do it when he's ready.”  
“I know,” Meyer repeats, this time a bit more seriously. “But until then, I don't know what to do.”  
He's vaguely surprised at his own words, but if there's one person he can safely talk to, it has to be Yetta. Still, his own voice sounds so childishly helpless to his ears. He looks at his hands, fingertips stained with graphite, feeling embarrassed.  
“Sometimes I feel... like he's not there. Like he's somewhere I can't reach him. Hiding, maybe. Like he left his body behind and wandered off.”  
“Does he come back?” Yetta asks.

It's a specific question, not something she's randomly guessed. She's not dismissing Charlie's behavior as a bad mood. She knows exactly what Meyer is describing.  
Meyer wonders whether it's because she's seen it, or because she's experienced it herself. He doesn't have the courage to ask.

“He does come back.” Meyer answers.  
Yetta nods, biting the inside of her cheek. “Time doesn't heal all wounds, but it does help figure out a way to deal with them.” she says, “Charlie is a strong boy, just lke you are.”  
Meyer frowns a little at the way she worded that, but doesn't ask questions.  
“He will need you to be there for him,” she says. There is something in her dark eyes, something in the way she's looking at Meyer, that makes him feel like he's being tested; althoug he wouldn't be able to guess what about.  
“He knows I am.” he answers.  
Yetta nods, her expression almost grave. But then she almost smiles; a curling of her lips so quick Meyer isn't entirely sure he's actually seen it at all.

He considers going back to his homework; grabs the pencil, makes it hover over hit notebook, then just taps it against it and looks away.  
“Mame,” he murmurs, forcing the words to leave his lips, “What do you think happened to him?”  
Yetta's expression grows softer, gentler. “I don't know,” she says.  
But Meyer knows his mother at least as well as she knows him. He knows, from the way she treated Charlie while he stayed with them, that she's figured out more than she want to share with Meyer. She treated him in such a delicate, careful way; almost as if she thought he would crumble between her fingers is she pressed too hard.  
“I need to know,” Meyer says, “How can I help him if I don't know?”  
Yetta reaches out and cups a hand to the side of Meyer's face, she brushes her thumb against his cheekbone.  
“You're just a child, my love,” she says.

She probably doesn't mean to, but her words alone are enough.  
You're just a child. Therefore, there are some things you shouldn't hear about.  
Just like that, Meyer knows.

“I need to go,” he says.  
“Meyer...”  
“I will be home for dinner.”  
He feels numb. He leaves his books and notebook on the tabls, pressed his hat on his head, grabs his coat and scarf, and marches out.

The numbness breaks when he steps foot out on the sidewalk, and an outpour or pure, unadulterated rage comes crashing down. If someone talked to him, right now, even just to wish him a good morning, Meyer would probably punch them.

How _dared_  they?  
The mere _thought_  of someone touching Charlie...  
He wants names. He wants to cut their fucking hands off. Someone needs to answer for what they did.

But the rage dissipates the moment Charlie opens the door and looks at him, a cigarette between his lips, his hair uncombed and impossibly curly.  
“Hey,” he says. There are dark circles under his eyes. He looks as numb as Meyer felt as he left his house. “You all right?” he asks, walking to the table, leaving the cigarette in an ashtray and picking up a cup of coffee.

Meyer doesn't even close the door. He looks at Charlie for a moment, and feels with such aching clarity what he's only suspected for a while: for whatever reason, Charlie is his.  
Or maybe it's the other way around. Maybe Meyer is the one who belongs to Charlie. Either way, Charlie is his to protect. He may not know this, he would probably even laugh if Meyer told him, but that's the way it is.

“Meyer?” Charlie asks, setting the cup down and walking closer, frowning, “What...?”  
But Charlie doesn't get to finish his question. As he steps closer, Meyer does the same. He wraps his arms around Charlie and presses his face against his shoulder, fingers clutching at his shirt.  
He closes his eyes, squeezes Charlie hard. Charlie almost gasps, he goes very still, but just for a second, just for the blink of an eye; then he hugs Meyer back, resting his chin on the top of Meyer's head.  
“What's wrong, little Meyer?” he asks, swaying a little.  
“Nothing's wrong,” Meyer answers. But he keeps his eyes closed, he doesn't let go of Charlie.  
“All right,” Charlie answers. He doesn't let go either.

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eventual translations in the end notes :P

There is a moment, and Charlie doesn't know what exactly triggered it, when the noises from the restaurant completely disappear. There is no chattering, no sound of cutlery being carefully disposed on the tables, no muffled yelling of orders coming from the kitchen.  
He stares at the bottom of his empty espresso cup, and his brain itself feels tired.  
Too tired to even concentrate on looking at anything. He just wants to stay still, to lie somewhere warm and soft and let the weight of his thoughts pull him down so he can't move at all.

A watery kind of snow is falling. The streets are muddy and slippery; there were rows of shoeprints climbing up the stairs of Charlie's building, the coats hanging near the entrance of the restaurant are dripping on the floor.  
The mud unsettles him. When it rained, back at the farms, his feet would sink all the way up to his calves. He had to fish his battered shoes more than once, trudge around barefoot, the earth itself apparently out to gobble him up.

It feels like a lifetime has gone by since he left the farms, and at the same time, Charlie occasionally wakes up utterly convinced he's still there. Time is hiccuping forward. Christmas has come and gone, a new year started. Some people are already dreaming of Spring, but February is obviously not feeling kind towards anybody.

It doesn't matter to Charlie. He likes Manhattan when it's cold and rainy. He likes sitting on the window-sill in his apartment, looking down at the streets half-flooded with water as he smokes a cigarette and nurses a drink.  
It's home. It keeps him grounded. It gives things around him density, it makes them tangible.

“Would you look at that,” a familiar voice says, and all the sounds come crashing down on Charlie with such force his ears start ringing. The laughter one table over sounds histerical, the shouting of the chef makes the hair on the back of Charlie's neck stick up.  
When he turns, Masseria is standing near the door, grinning that smug grin of his and taking off his coat.  
“Joe,” Charlie says, making to stand up. Masseria waves the polite gesture away with a hand; he grabs a chair, drags it closer, and sits at Charlie's table.  
“Since when you dress so...” he shrugs, looking for the right word, filling up the pause by looking at Charlie up and down, “Dapper.” he says in the end.  
“I'm trying to look respectable,” Charlie says, with a little smirk.  
Masseria laughs, patting Charlie's shoulder. “You can dress pretty, Totò, but you no look respectable _cu chidda facci da delinquente*_.”  
Charlie snorts, shaking his head. He can feel Masseria studying him carefully. It makes his skin fill suddenly too tight.  
“They tell me you no want to be called Salvatore anymore,” Masseria says, tilting his head a little, his tone somewhat gentle, somewhat worried. “Why is that?”

Johnny used that same tone very often. The sickly sweet, insultingly gentle way one would talk to a child. Salvatore clutches his fists so hard his fingernails sink into his skin.

“I figured this way Americans ain't going to fuck up my name no more,” he says, trying to keep his voice even.  
“Maybe you no like people knowing where you come from,” Masseria says. “But that face you have." _Jè na facci Siciliana, Totò_.**” You want an American name, but you no look American.”  
“I look as American as anybody else in Manhattan,” Charlie says, too defensively for his liking.  
Masseria smiles again, as if he knew Charlie was going to say exactly that.  
“As American as you little Jew friend.” he says.  
“Yes,” Charlie answers.  
“Ah, Totò,” Masseria sighs, shaking his head. “You are a _picciotto_ , but not for long. Your friend Castiglia, he's Calabrese. Siciliani, Calabresi, Napoletani. Even Pugliesi. We different, but not much. Jews are another thing. They think different, they do things different. A Calabrese, maybe he talks shit about you, but he know the rules. Your Jew friends, they have different rules.”  
“Do they?” Charlie murmurs.  
“Greedy, crooked people,” Masseria says, “They killed Christ, why you think they no gonna stab you in the back?”

It's starting to thunder, outside. The wind is rising.  
Charlie gets up, he picks some money from his pocket, leaves it on the table.  
“I guess Sicilians ain't never stabbed other Sicilians in the back, uh?” he asks.  
“You be careful,” Masseria says, but there's no threat in his words, since he obviously thinks there is no way Charlie could be a credible threat to _him_. “You know if you need work, you can come to me. But be careful, Salvatore.”  
“Name's Charlie. Have a good day.” Charlie says, giving him a little nod and marching away.

Meyer is waiting out of Charlie's apartment, leaning against the wall, reading. He looks up when Charlie steps on the landing.  
“You're late,” he says. He looks at him for a moment, grabs a cigarette holder from his pocket and hands Charlie a cigarette. His eyes follow Charlie's hand as he reaches out to take it. He hums, stuffs the little book in a pocket. “Who pissed you off?”  
“Nobody,” Charlie says, looking for a light and finding his keys instead.  
“Must have been someone relevant,” Meyer says, “Since you didn't beat them up.”  
“Nothing happened,” Charlie snaps, “That's just what my face looks like.”  
“I asked you why you're angry, Charlie, not why you're ugly.”  
Charlie stares at him for a moment, then snorts.  
“I ain't ugly.”  
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I guess.” Meyer grins.  
“I'm extremely handsome,”  
“Did your mom tell you that?”  
“No, yours did.” Salvatore says, while unlocking the door, then adds, more seriously: “She really did, you know. She said I'm charming.”  
“She was talking about your personality,” Meyer says, following him in, “And she was wrong about that, too.”  
“Fuck you, Meyer,” Charlie mutters, throwing his coat on the first available chair and flopping on the couch. Meyer just laughs, grabs a chair, and sits on it. He takes a box of matches from his pocket, strikes one, and lights Charlie's cigarette.  
“Let's get to work, shall we?” he says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "with that scoundrel face"-ish  
> ** "it's a Sicilian face, Totò"


	31. Chapter 31

Charlie grabs Meyer by the collar as soon as he walks in, he unties his tie and throws it at Benny.  
“Good morning to you, too.” Meyer comments, as Charlie picks another tie from the ones scattered all around the table.  
“Stay still,” he says, starting to put it on Meyer.  
“Don't do that,” Meyer says, but he doesn't move.  
“Why not? It's your color.” Charlie says. He finishes tying it and smooths it down, admiring his work.  
“How am I going to explain silk ties to my mother?” Meyer asks, crossing his arms. “Yes mother, I stole these. It's not _that_  bad. It could be worse. I could be setting pushcarts on fire like Benny does, you know, the cute one.”  
“Don't be dumb,” Charlie says, picking up another tie and comparing it to the one around Meyer's neck. “I'm the cute one here.”  
“You fucking ain't!” Benny snaps, stuffing ties into his pockets.  
“Ain't you got a job to do?” Charlie says. Benny mutters and makes room on the table, sitting down and starting to fish bills from a paper bag.  
“The guys want their cut,” Charlie explains, lighting a cigarette.  
“And you're letting _him_  do that?” Meyer asks.  
“I can fucking count, Meyer.” Benny mumbles.  
“You have the attention span of a toddler.” Meyer snorts, sitting next to him and starting to count the money in the bag.

There's a knock on the door. Meyer looks at Charlie, who frowns and starts walking towards it. Meyer stuffs the money back into the bag and hides it inside his coat.  
A girl is standing on the doorway. Dark hair, dark eyes, she smiles at Charlie and bites her lower lip. “Hey,” Charlie says. Meyer can hear the shit-eating grin in his voice.  
“Is this a bad time?” she asks.  
“It's never a bad time when you're around,” Charlie says. Benny quietly pretends to gag.   
She's wearing a pale blue dress, the girl. Charlie lets her in, gives Meyer and Benny a look, then leads her to the bedroom. He makes to close the door, but it's such an afterthought he doesn't manage to.

“Great,” Meyer comments, starting to count the money again. He gets lost. Starts again.   
He doesn't like this. She's a stranger and shouldn't be in the apartment at all. Charlie may go all soft when girls are involved, but Meyer doesn't. A woman can fuck them over just as well as any man.  
“I need a smoke,” he says, to nobody in particular.   
“On the fireplace,” Benny says, gingerly setting the money in tidy little stacks.  
Meyer gets up, walks to the fireplace, grabs a cigarette. He's lighting it when he looks up and notices he can see inside the bedroom, from where he's standing.

They're sitting on the edge of the bed. Charlie is leaning into the girl, whispering something to her. She's smiling, a hand pressing against his chest.  
Meyer doesn't know why he's looking at them. He wants to walk back to the table, but his feet feel glued to the floor.  
Charlie's hand is on her thigh. Meyer sees it slide down towards the girl's knee, then move up underneath her skirt. He almost expects her to swat Charlie's hand away, instead she reaches down between her legs and guides Charlie up a little. Charlie grins and kisses her.  
It's weird, to Meyer, that the thing that makes him move isn't the kiss, or Charlie's hand between the girl's legs. It's her fingers messing up Charlie's curls.

“Fuck this,” Meyer says, “I'm going home.”  
“Uh?” Benny says, looking up at him, confused. “Why?” he asks, but Meyer has already stormed out and slammed the door behind him so hard he can briefly hear the window panes inside rattle.

His heart is pounding furiously, his throat feels tight.  
He wants to be as far away from the apartment as he can, as fast as possible. He feels like it would take him so very little to explode.

He's a block away when Charlie reaches him, shouting his name. Meyer doesn't stop, but Charlie doesn't give up until he's right behind him. He reaches out, grabs Meyer's shoulder to make him turn around.  
“What the hell, Meyer?” he pants. He's not wearing a coat, or even a jacket. “What happened?”  
“You looked quite busy,” Meyer says, trying to keep his voice from shaking, “I thought you might need some privacy.”  
“What...” Charlie whispers.   
“Does that seem normal to you?” Meyer snaps, before he can stop himself, “Fucking some girl while your friends work in the other room?”  
“I wasn't fucking her,” Charlie says.  
“Oh, you weren't fucking her. And intercourse was absolutely not in the forseeable future at all.”  
“Well...”  
“Grow the fuck up, Charlie,” Meyer says, “Your actions have repercussions on all of us. Stop thinking with your goddamned dick.”  
“I'm sorry, all right?” Charlie blurts out, “I didn't think you'd be so uncomfortable with it.”  
“Uncomfortable,” Meyer says, with a bitter chuckle. “Right. I see how it is. It's _my_  fault, now.”  
“I ain't said that...”  
“Fuck you, Charlie.” Meyer says, “Go back to your friend. I'm sure she's got all the time in the world to wait for you, but even if she doesn't, you have no qualms with paying to get laid anyway. Something will come up.”  
“Jesus, Meyer, I...”  
But whatever Charlie means to say, Meyer doesn't want to hear it. He turns around and walks away, ignoring Charlie as he shouts behind him.

Meyer hasn't cried since he was a little kid, and he sure as hell isn't going to do it now; but his eyes are prickling with bottled-up rage.  
He wishes he could say he doesn't understand why he reacted so violently. He keps picturing the girl's fingers combing Charlie's curls and it almost makes him nauseous.

When he's finally standing at the feet of the stairs of his building, he's breathing hard and sweating under his coat. He hadn't noticed he was almost running until he stopped. He catches his breath leaning against the wall, looking up at the dirty-white ceiling.

This needs to stop.  
He needs to crush this stupid idea he somehow got in his head, before things get worse.   
It's not normal. It can only cause trouble.

Yetta isn't home when Meyer walks in. Max is sitting at the table, reading a newspaper.  
“You're home early,” he comments.  
“It happears so.” Meyer answers, coldly.  
Max looks up at him and frowns. “Are you feeling well?”  
“Why do you ask?”  
“Your eyes look shiny,” Max says, getting up and walking up to Meyer. He touches Meyer's cheek, hums to himself.  
“I'm all right.” Meyer mutters. He feels embarrassed, like the gesture was too intimate for the relationship the two of them share.  
“If it isn't sickness of the body, maybe it's sickness of the heart,” Max says. He doesn't say it the way Yetta would, completely sure of being right; he says it lightly, jokingly, perhaps hoping to keep the conversation going.  
“It's not that,” Meyer says.  
“Did you fight with a friend?” Max asks. Meyer's look must tell him he's right, because he sits back down and sighs. “I'm sure whatever it is, it will get better on its own.”  
“Right,” Meyer says, “I need to study,”  
“Sit with me,” Max says.

Meyer could refuse. It's Yetta he wants to talk to. Yetta always knows what to do. But he doesn't want to be alone and stew in his bitterness, either.   
He sits down opposite to Max.  
“Do you want to tell me about it?”  
“Not really,” Meyer says. He drums his fingers on the table, taps his foot on the floor. Then the words just burst out of him, and even though he really doesn't want to, he says: “There are things Charlie does that I do not approve of.”  
Max bites the inside of his cheek, he nods to himself. “When I was your age, the one thing my friends and I always ended up fighting about was girls,” he says, and gives Meyer a look.  
“I don't think that will ever be a problem,” Meyer says, “Fortunately, we don't share the same taste in women.”  
“Is that what you don't approve of?” Max asks, “The girls he associates with?”

Meyer doesn't answer.   
That's not it, not quite. Meyer doesn't mind the girls Charlie hangs out with. It's not their personality he doesn't like, it's the way Charlie behaves with them. The goofy smile, the way he looks at them. The way he touches them.

“You know, it's normal to be jealous of your friends,” Max says, gingerly, “You have someone all for yourself, and then a girl comes around, and suddenly he doesn't have that much time for you anymore...”  
“I'm not jealous,” Meyer snaps, then realizes just how revealing that outburst was, and he adds, his voice softer: “I'm angry.”  
Truth be told, he can't imagine Max being close enough to anybody to feel jealous when somebody new entered the picture.  
Max doesn't say anything for a long moment. Meyer looks at his hands. His head is starting to ache dully. Then Max gets up and picks something from a shelf; he sits back down and puts a battered box of cards in the middle of the table.  
“You know how to play poker, right?” he says.  
Meyer gives him a confused look, he nods.   
“Good. Teach me.”  
“Now?”  
“Yes.”

Meyer looks at the cards.   
Max won't enjoy poker. He likes simpler, more immediate games, like the ones Charlie taught him. He's not interested in poker itself. He just wants Meyer to sit there and focus on something else.  
Any other time, Meyer would come up with an excuse and leave. But now he grabs the cards and starts shuffling them.

 


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the huge wait /o\

Most of the lights in the semi-deserted restaurant have been turned off. On the other side of the window, a chilly, windy night has fallen over Manhattan. Charlie's eyes have been stuck to the one lit window in the building opposite to the restaurant, a single open eye in the night. From the kitchen, somewhere on the right, comes a fragile music and the sound of plates and cutlery being washed.

“Your espresso is most likely frozen solid, by now.” Frank says.  
Frank's espresso, on the other hand, has been drunk, and he's now focusing on sipping some creamy limoncello and eating sweet tarallini.  
Charlie hums and pushes his cold cup of coffee away, leaning back against his chair.  
“I got a lot on my mind,” he says; an almost-apology for having said barely a dozen sentences during the whole night.  
“I noticed,” Frank answers. “Is this about Meyer?”  
“Why would it be about Meyer?”  
“Because Benny has a very big mouth and the two of you are turning him even crazier than he already is.” Frank snorts.

Makes sense.  
Benny could have easily followed them down in the street and witnessed that whole surreal exchange.  
Charlie doesn't say anything for a long moment. The lit window, outside, flickers out.  
“Sometimes it feels like we ain't even need to talk,” Charlie says. “When I was a kid, the thing I hated the most was not being able to talk to other Americans. Makes you feel like a freak. People look at you like you're some dumb fuck.”  
“I know what that feels like,” Frank murmurs.  
“But with Meyer, it ain't a problem if I ain't got the right words to say what I want to say, because he has them anyway. And he just _knows_.”  
Frank hums in acknowledgment, waiting for Charlie to go on.  
“But I have no fucking clue what the fuck that whole thing was about,” Charlie finally confesses, “So I got a broad who wants to fuck me, so what? It ain't the first time. I thought, maybe Meyer just don't like, you know. Sex. Maybe he's uncomfortable with it. But he got so angry when I said that...”

He looks up, and the way Frank is looking at him makes his mouth snap shut.  
He looks inquisitive, focused. Meyer-like. He's studying Charlie's face and words for _something_.  
“What?” Charlie asks, suspiciously.  
Frank looks at his small, limoncello-filled glass. He drinks it up, puts it back on the table and sighs.  
“Have you ever been in love, Charlie?”  
Charlie shrugs. “I been serious with a couple of girls.”  
“That's not what I asked.”  
“What are you asking, then?”  
“Being in love with someone is different from being in love with what they have between their legs.”  
“That ain't fair!” Charlie says, “I mean, of course I like what they got between their legs, but that ain't the only thing there is to like about broads. There ain't a point fucking nobody if they ain't good company.”  
“Fair enough. And these two ladies you have been serious with, were they good company?”  
“Of course.”  
“Better company than Meyer?”  
Charlie snorts, and Frank's lips curl in a vague smile.  
“What did you think, just now?” he asks.  
“Where are you getting at?” Charlie snaps.

Frank fills his glass again, then the glass that had been left there for Charlie, who hadn't even noticed when it happened. He sets the glass in front of Charlie, gives him an intense look.  
“I've always thought of you as one of my closest friends,” he says. “I need to be honest with you.”  
“Sure,” Charlie murmurs, holding his glass without much conviction.  
“I'm going to say this as explicitely as I can.”  
“Right.”  
“I think you've been in love with that kid since the day he told you to go fuck yourself.” Frank says.

Charlie stares at him, a cold, almost painful twitch squeezing his stomach.  
“What?” he says, softly.  
“The way you behave around him, the way you look at him. You don't do that with anybody else. I know you care about Benny, and I know you care about me. I've seen you talking and messing around with your brothers, and Charlie, even the way you act with them doesn't have the same level of intimacy you have with Meyer.”  
Charlie wants to protest. He feels like he should be insulted, like he's supposed to defend himself. But nothing of what Frank said is wrong.  
“I ain't queer,” he finally mutters, “I like broads.”  
“Those two aren't mutually exclusive.” Frank says, so gently all the potential protestations die inside Charlie's throat.

He never thought of Meyer like that. Like a sexual being. He's just a goddamned _kid_.  
But there is something in Meyer that makes Charlie so utterly _comfortable_. He doesn't mind the feeling of their knees pressing together, of sitting too close to him, of touching his shoulder while they speak. It doesn't feel like Meyer's body is a thing alien to Charlie. It feels like they're made of the same thing.  
Is that what it's supposed to feel like?

“I wouldn't look so downcast,” Frank says, “Your feelings are definitely reciprocated.”  
“What makes you say that?” Charlie says, his voice blank.  
“I was here while you were at Hampton Farms. I saw him fight for you. He may not know it, that's very possible, but he acts like your interests are his interests. He acts like you're his responsibility.”  
“Ain't that what friends do?”  
“Again, not mutually exclusive.” Frank says, then smirks. “Plus, I've never seen him smile at anybody the way he smiles at you.”

He'd smiled so brightly at Charlie, when he picked him up from the bus stop. His sharp, calculating eyes looked so warm. Frank is right about that. That smile belongs to Charlie, and he's known that for a while, now. But still, it doesn't mean...

“We should go, before Ciro comes out and starts yelling at us,” Frank says, getting up. Charlie nods.  
He feels a bit numb as he puts on his hat and coat and walks out in the clear, cool night.  
He wonders if Frank is right, and Meyer thinks of Charlie with the same, excruciating longing with which Charlie thinks of him.  
He hugs himself and waits for Frank to follow him out after saying good night to the owner. He considers lighting a cigarette, which is what Frank does as soon as he's next to him, but his hands feel cold and he just wants to be underneath the covers of his bed as soon as possible.  
“I was thinking there is no better company than Meyer,” Charlie says.  
“I know,” Frank says, with a puff of smoke. “He's not the only one who knows you well enough to figure out what goes on in that hard head of yours,” he says, with a grin.  
  
  


 


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, sorry it took me so long to update /o\ My computer died on me, so I'm not sure how often I'll manage to add to this fic. I would also like to apologize in advance for any weird stuff going on with this chapter, since I wrote it on my phone :(

 "You go ahead," Charlie tells Benny, who shoots Meyer a quick look before reluctantly obeying. 

They're cutting through a lot where a three-story building used to be. Fire ate it up a few months before, and until someone decides to start rebuilding, it's the perfect shortcut to and from Charlie's apartment.  
It's a miserable-looking day. Fat gray clouds promise rain, the wind is picking up, the temperature dropped. Meyer would much rather be home. Or anywhere else, really.

"I can't read your fucking mind, Meyer." Charlie says.  
"And that concerns me how?" Meyer asks, coldly.  
"You keep acting like I'm supposed to know what the hell is going on with you before it even happens..."  
"Listen," Meyer says, "I really think you should maybe try this again when you actually have something coherent to say."  
Charlie's mouth clicks shut. He glares at Meyer, who turns around and starts to walk away.  
"You fucking _coward_." Charlie says. He doesn't sound particularly angry. "You act like you've got it all figured out, and then you don't even have the _balls_ to..."

Something kind of clicks inside Meyer's head. He's walking away, he really means to just leave Charlie to his rambling. But he turns around instead, marches towards Charlie and punches him straight in the face.  
There is a moment in which Meyer considers stopping. A very brief moment.  
He shoves Charlie back, jumps on him when he trips and falls on his ass.  
"Stop it!" Charlie says, trying to wrestle Meyer off. He gets punched again instead.  
And Meyer may be a small ball of concentrated rage, but Charlie is bigger, and he does manage to hit Meyer hard enough to make him lose his balance and flip them over, straddling Meyer and pinning his wrists above his head.  
"Fucking _stop_ , Meyer!" Charlie shouts. Meyer just sort of growls at him, squirming, trying to find a way to hit him again. He tries to headbutt Charlie, who lets go of one of Meyer's wrists to press a hand on his face and hold him down.  
"Would you fucking...!" Charlie starts yelling at him. The sentence is cut short by Meyer blindly reaching up and grabbing a handful of Charlie's hair; he yanks at it hard, then takes advantage of Charlie's surprise to roll them over again.

And then he goes still.  
Charlie is sprawled underneath him, still holding tight to Meyer's wrist. He doesn't look like he wants to fight back. He's not even trying to make Meyer let go of his hair. Which is what makes Meyer calm down, really. Looking away from Charlie's face and to the curls he's still holding into his fist.

Meyer lets go.

"You done?" Charlie asks, panting.  
"Shut the fuck up." Meyer answers, weakly, crawling off of him.  
The fight may have gone out of Meyer, but he's still angry. At himself, mostly. He should have been able to keep himself under control...  
He gets up, combs his hair back with a hand. Charlie groans as he stands, he presses a hand against his head.  
"Your nose is bleeding," he says. He grabs a handkerchief from his pocket and tries to press it against Meyer's nose. Meyer slaps his hand away. Charlie catches Meyer's wrist and cleans off the blood anyway.

Meyer feels oddly mollified. He's still angry, he doubts that's gonna change any time soon, but he's starting to ache and feel more dejected than anything else.  
He follows Charlie to Calogero's shop, keeps Charlie's handkerchief pressed to his bloody nose until Calogero helpfully gives him some gauze, and Charlie a thick steak to press on his eye. 

He's sitting on a crate in the back of the shop, bits of gauze stuck in his nostrils, head tilted back, staring dully at the ceiling, when Charlie says: "You're such a fucking ass."  
"What do I have to do to get you to shut your fucking mouth?" Meyer sighs.  
"You know what my mom says?" Charlie asks, deliberately ignoring Meyer's words. "She says smart people are the dumbest people around."  
"Which means that...?"  
"It means you're a dumb fuck."  
"You really _want_ to be punched in the other eye, uh?" Meyer snaps, pushing himself up. His head spins, and he has to lean against the crate to keep himself steady.  
"You're so fucking stubborn," Charlie sighs. "I'm trying to fucking talk to you, and you keep getting scared and trying to run away..."  
Seeing as Charlie insists on not shutting his mouth, Meyer punches him in the stomach. 

Which is not the smartest thing he's ever done, because he's not particularly stable right now, and even though he manages to make Charlie bend over in pain, he also loses his balance and almost falls. The reason why he _doesn't_ is that Charlie grabs him. Then he turns Meyer around and wraps himself around him like a fucking octopus, trying to keep him still.  
"Jesus Christ, Meyer!" Charlie shouts, as Meyer tries to wiggle away. "Stop it."  
"I don't want to talk to you," Meyer says, and immediately feels stupid for having let the words escape his mouth.  
"Then just fucking listen," Charlie says. He whispers it straight into Meyer's ear, and Meyer may be angry and feeling humiliated, but shivers run down his spine anyway.

"That broad ain't nothing to me," Charlie says.  
"I don't know what you're talking about."  
"You're too smart to think I'm ever gonna let anybody get between the two of us."  
"I don't..."  
"You do." Charlie says.  
Meyer tries to swallow the lump in his throat, but Charlie letting go of his wrist to grab his hand instead, intertwining their fingers while still holding Meyer tight, makes it almost impossible.

He's scared Charlie will notice the way his breath hitches when he does that. But then Charlie pushes his face against Meyer's neck, presses his lips against Meyer's skin, and Meyer starts worrying about other things.  
About his legs feeling wobbly. About his heart beating so hard  it's painful. About the fact he's almost positive he's going to die on the spot.  
And then Charlie's tongue presses against his neck, and Meyer feels like he's melting, like Charlie keeping him up is the only reason why he's not flopped on the floor yet. Charlie must have felt him relax, too, because one of Meyer's hands is suddenly free, and he reaches behind him and digs his fingers into Charlie's hair, tilting his head so that Charlie can suck on his skin more comfortably.

Then Charlie moves away. Meyer panics for a moment, but he's almost immediately grabbed and pushed until his back hits the wall.  
Charlie looks at Meyer as if trying to impress every detail of his face into his brain forever. He reaches up, cups Meyer's face with his hands.  
"Do you understand?" he asks. Meyer can feel Charlie's breath on his lips.  
"I do," Meyer whispers, and Charlie leans in and presses his forehead against Meyer's, his thumbs brushing against Meyer's cheeks.  
Meyer clings to Charlie's shirt. He watches as Charlie closes his eyes and tilts his head. He can almost already feel Charlie's lips on his when something crashes loudly in the shop, and Calogero can be heard chastising someone. 

And Meyer suddenly remembers where they are. It seems Charlie is thinking the same thing, because he groans and presses their foreheads together again for a moment, then takes a step back.

"You all right?" he asks, softly.  
Meyer nods, feeling dazed.  
"I'm gonna walk you home." Charlie decides.  
Any other time, Meyer would have complained. But it seems he's momentarily forgotten how to speak, so he just nods again.

It starts raining as they walk back, with Charlie occasionally grabbing Meyer to keep him from losing his balance. By the time they've reached Meyer's building, they're both soaked, but to Meyer it feels like such a remote, insignificant problem.  
"Meyer," Charlie says, once they're outside his door. "Are we all right?"

Meyer looks at him.  
He felt vulnerable, while Charlie held him and kissed his neck. He felt like Charlie knew exactly what he was doing. But he doesn't _look_ any less vulnerable than Meyer felt. 

There is so much to say. So much to ask.  
How long has Charlie been feeling this way about Meyer? Has he always known how Meyer felt about him? What are they going to do now?  
And yet, the only thing Meyer manages to say is: "Yes. We are all right."  
Charlie smiles at him, and it's such a shy, pleased little smile. It makes Meyer's chest feel tight.

Meyer isn't sure what his mother thinks when he sees him walk in, wet to the bone, his nose swollen, and a hickey on his neck. She just looks at him and sighs.  
"Take those clothes off," she says, then she adds: "I do wish you boys would learn to talk things out."


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't answered to the comments to the previous chapter, I've read them and I love all of you :(

The incandescent light coming from outside, framing the door left ajar, burns itself into Charlie's retinas. He stops on his tracks, one foot on the first step of the last flight of stairs leading to the roof.  
Something like reverence is poking at his ribcage as he looks at those thin blades of light. He feels like there's a message hidden in there, something he's not equipped to decipher. He gathers his courage and keeps walking.

He shields his eyes for a moment: after the penumbra of the stairs, the early Spring sunlight is like an explosion. As he gets used to daylight again, a sea of immaculate sheets hung to dry manifests itself in front of him. The sound they make as they flap in the warm breeze reminds Charlie of the sails of small boats lazily bobbing in a harbor.

The day is unseasonably hot. Pidgeons hoot peacefully. A siren screams in the distance. The scent of lemons fills the air around him.  
The sheets, rythmically puffing up and shriking down, look like living, breathing creatures. Charlie finds himself holding his breath before he starts walking between clotheslines.

He moves aside a still-wet shirt, and, finally, Meyer appears. He's standing in front of a rickety-looking table, a basket full of freshly washed clothes at his feet, a pile of folded towels and shirts in front of him. He's taken his cap and his vest off. Charlie stands frozen, mesmerized by the shape Meyer's hair makes at the nape of his neck.

“Hey, Meyer,” he blurs out, in the end.  
Meyer turns to give him a look, then goes back to his task. “Good morning.”  
“How come you're up here?” Charlie asks. He crosses his arms. Uncrosses them. Fidgets a little before stuffing his hands in his pockets.  
“My mother didn't appreciate me coming home bleeding and bruised and wet to the bone.” Meyer says, blankly.  
Charlie, whose stomach has been cramping with a mix of fear and nerves since he's taken the decision to come see Meyer, breaks in a wide, delighted grin: “You're grounded?” he asks. Meyer mumbles something Charlie doesn't catch, turns around, and marches towards the clotheslines.

“Hey, wait up,” Charlie laughs, following him. Meyer stands with his arms full of bedsheet and looks at Charlie as he rolls up his sleeves. “Here,” Charlie says, picking up one end of the sheet and helping Meyer fold it. It's a mechanical movement, something he's done countless times back when he still lived with his parents. His mother would walk to the other end of the cramped living-room, Charlie would follow her lead while his siblings bent down to walk underneath the sheets.  
He can't remember the last time he's done it.

"Charlie?" Meyer says, softly. "Is everything all right?"  
Charlie blinks at him.  
"You looked a bit lost, for a moment," Meyer says.  
"It's nothing," Charlie says. Even to his own ears, his voice sounds embarrassingly sweet.  
Meyer nods, giving him an unsure, frowny look. He then looks at the swaying linen, sighs, rubs his eyes with the back of a hand. He walks back to the table, leaves the sheet on top of the pile, and turns around to steal the battered packet of cigarettes from Charlie's breast pocket, popping one between his lips. Charlie fishes some matches from another pocket, he lights Meyer's cigarette.

“Did you come here just to look at me while I do chores?” Meyer asks, softly, puffing out a small cloud of smoke, looking at it as if fades into the bright day.

Charlie shrugs. “Do I need a reason to hang out with you?”  
Meyer doesn't change position, but his eyes move on Charlie. He doesn't speak. Then he looks away, half-shakes his head, flicks away the cigarette, makes to walk off again.

Charlie has no fucking clue what makes him do it, but he grabs Meyer's wrist before he can plunge back into the sea of sheets. Meyer instinctively struggles a little before going completely still, dark eyes searching Charlie's face.  
“Sorry,” Charlie says.  
“For what?” Meyer asks.  
“You always know when I'm talking shit.” Charlie murmurs.  
“Yes,” Meyer says, “I do.”  
He looks at his wrist, still firmly held by Charlie, then looks back at him. Charlie lets go, he crosses his arms, looks at his feet like a chastized little kid.

Charlie bites the inside of his cheek. He spent all night preparing a speech he then rehearsed all the way to Meyer's house, and he can't remember a single fucking word of it.  
“I ain't good at this,” he says.  
“All right,” Meyer says.  
"I just, hm. You said we're good."  
"We are,"  
"But then, you know. Things are always different when the sun's up."  
Meyer frowns at him. "I don't understand."  
"There's things you do at night, and you think they make sense while you're doing them, at night, but then the day comes and you ain't that sure." Charlie says.  
"That. Never happened to me." Meyer says, very slowly.  
"I'm just saying that maybe you said that last night, but then..."  
"Are we good?" Meyer asks.  
"Uh?"  
"Are we good? Now. With the sun up." Meyer insists, pointing up at the sky.  
Charlie keeps chewing on his lips. "I think we are," he says, "Do you think we...?"  
"I think we're good." Meyer nods.

It takes Charlie a moment to let go of the embarrassment and let himself smile, first at the ground, then at Meyer.  
"All right," he says.  
"All right." Meyer agrees.

It takes so much courage to take a step forward, but Charlie manages. He rests his forehead against Meyer's, combs Meyer's floppy hair back with a hand. He can feel Meyer's scraped knuckles hesitantly brush against his own, then he hooks two fingers around Charlie's: it's not holding hands, but it's something close to it.  
If he kisses him now, if he kisses him _for real_ , will he fuck everything up?  
Does Meyer even know what he's doing? Does he know what he's getting himself into?  
His little Meyer may be smart, but brains don't really factor in this sort of thing...

It's Meyer, in the end, who grabs Charlie's collar and pulls him down, pressing their lips together and making Charlie half-squeak in the least dignified of ways. Meyer's lips are soft and dry. Just like the clothes around them, Meyer smells of ashes and lemons. It makes Charlie's head spin.  
It's a brief kiss, but by the time Meyer moves away, Charlie feels like a lifetime has gone by.

Meyer is looking at him with those dark eyes of his wide. He moves a hand to his lips, looks down. Charlie's chest is hurting dully.

After a long moment, Meyer deliberately takes Charlie's hand and steps backwards, leading him between the murmuring sheets.  
He cups Charlie's face with his hands. He doesn't say a word, but the way he looks at Charlie's lips and licks his own makes Charlie's stomach twist. For a moment, Meyer looks like he's finding it hard to breathe, and Charlie is almost completely sure his heart has decided to give up beating. Then Meyer gets on the tip of his toes and kisses him again.

It feels like the ground's disappeared underneath Charlie's feet. Meyer's hand moves to the back of Charlie's head, his fingers tug at his hair, and the way Charlie's heart jump-starts back into action is _painful_. Meyer obviously doesn't know what he's doing, but he still pushes his tongue inside Charlie's mouth, and _God_ , the little sigh that comes next tastes so much like relief, like there was nothing Meyer was waiting more eagerly than this...

Meyer only breaks the kiss to gulp in some air, but he doesn't move away. He looks at Charlie, the grip on his hair loosening a bit. Charlie, too, relaxes a little. He wraps his arms around Meyer, presses his face against the side of Meyer's head. Meyer sighs again, he snuggles closer and presses a tiny little kiss against Charlie's neck.

"The, hm... the fact you're grounded..." Charlie slurs out. He briefly forgets how words work, squeezes Meyer tighter, "That means you're stuck here, right?"  
Meyer just hums. He's holding on to Charlie in a way that tells him their legs are equally shaky.  
"Ain't a bad place to be stuck at," Charlie whispers.


	35. Chapter 35

“Hey Meyer, why don’t you, uh. Stay for a moment.” Charlie says. He makes a show of emptying the many full ashtrays on the table they’d been sitting at all evening, of gathering poker cards and stacking them in a neat deck.   
Meyer doesn’t answer. He gives Benny, who’s lingering in the doorway waiting for him, a look and a nod. When Benny leaves, Meyer takes off the hat he’d already put on and closes the door.

That’s when Charlie looks up from the table, drops everything he was doing, and marches straight towards Meyer.   
He presses him against the door, cups his face with his hands, and kisses him. It starts as something frantic, but slows down once Charlie seems to realize Meyer isn’t going anywhere.  
“And here I was, thinking you just wanted to talk.” Meyer murmurs, when Charlie breaks the kiss.  
“Let’s talk later.” Charlie grins, and kisses him again.

It isn’t Summer yet, not properly, but Spring doesn’t seem to know that. All the windows in Charlie’s apartment are open; paper-thin curtains sway in a weak, warm breeze. The light-bulb on the ceiling stopped working around a week before, and Charlie hasn’t bothered fixing it yet, so the light they have comes from a little, fat bedside lamp set on the table. As Charlie grabs Meyer’s wrists and steps back, forcing him to follow to the couch, their shadows tower on the walls.

“I do not appreciate being manhandled,” Meyer says. It’s something of a joke, something of a threat. Charlie still lets himself fall on the couch and drags him along.  
“You’re the perfect size for it, though.” he grins, and preemptively tightens his grip on Meyer’s wrists, knowing full well he’ll start squirming and trying to hit him.  
Since his arms are blocked, Meyer kicks at Charlie, and when Charlie lets go of one of Meyer’s wrists to catch his ankle, Meyer grabs a handful of Charlie’s hair and pulls his head back.   
“Ow,” Charlie half groans, half laughs.   
“Let go of me.” Meyer says, softly.  
“Ain’t gonna happen,” Charlie grins. Meyer tugs harder. Charlie’s fingers twitch against Meyer’s ankle. He bites his lips, closes his eyes for a fraction of a second.   
“I see,” Meyer murmurs. Charlie blinks at him. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down for a moment. “I never considered the possibility this could be something people enjoyed.”  
“You sure seem to like doing it.” Charlie says.  
“I like _doing_  it. Touch my hair and I will hurt you.”  
Charlie chuckles.

They’re in a precarious position, but with every tug of Charlie’s hair, he’s been leaning back a little bit more, so that Meyer could easily straddle him if he wanted to. _But_ , the way Charlie relaxed made Meyer lose focus, so that he’s completely unprepared when Charlie pulls at his ankle and makes him slip down, flopping on his back on the couch, and pins him down.  
He kisses Meyer again, letting go of his ankle and dragging his hand up his calf.   
“Guess you gotta find something else to use against me,” Charlie says.  
Meyer shrugs. “I’m going to start tickling you.”  
The smug smirk on Charlie’s face falters a little. “You ain’t.”  
“Would you like to bet on it?”  
Charlie opens his mouth to say something, but Meyer doesn’t give him the chance to do it. He goes straight for Charlie’s side, and doubles down when Charlie lets go of him to try and squirm away.  
“Goddammit, Meyer,” Charlie laughs, trying to push himself away. Not that Meyer is going to let him do that: he wraps his legs around Charlie’s waist, traps him in place, and keeps tickling him. “I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Charlie moans, between giggles.  
“Sure you are,” Meyer says. “Maybe I’ll stop if you say you’re sorry and you will stop manhandling me.”  
“Fuck you, Meyer.”  
“I could start pinching you sides, you know.”  
“You are _evil_ ,” Charlie giggles. And then he slips, loses his balance, and falls on the floor, dragging Meyer down as well. His head makes an extremely amusing noise when it bumps against the battered wooden floor.  
Meyer, who ended up on top of Charlie, gives up tickling him and just laughs.  
“Ouch,” Charlie says, then chuckles. “You, Meyer Lansky, are a bad person.”  
“Oh, am I?” Meyer asks, pinching Charlie’s side.  
“Ow, stop that, you’re good! You’re very good!”  
“That’s much better,” Meyer grins, leaning in and kissing Charlie.

Charlie’s hands slowly make their way to Meyer’s waist, he sighs into the kiss. Meyer drags his teeth against Charlie’s lower lip and feels him tense underneath him. “Maybe we oughta...” Charlie whispers, but Meyer kisses the rest of the sentence away.  
Meyer doesn’t know a lot about this sort of things, but he does know what he likes. Charlie’s panting underneath him, eyes closed, moaning softly when Meyer decides to start kissing his throat, gripping Meyer’s waist tighter; all of that is because of Meyer.   
“ _Fuck_...” Charlie hisses, shifting a little, and Meyer feels the word against his lips. He feels incredibly hot, but he doesn’t stop kissing Charlie as he unbuttons and unceremoniously throws aside his vest. In doing that, though, his position on top of Charlie changes. It’s not a huge change, but it’s enough for Charlie’s erection to press against Meyer’s thigh. And Charlie makes the weirdest of chocked noises and squirms up just enough for it not to happen again.

And Meyer thinks he’s done it inadvertently, until he reaches down and gives Charlie’s cock a gentle little squeeze and Charlie brusquely grabs Meyer’s wrist.   
“Did I do something wrong?” Meyer asks. Charlie shakes his head and brings Meyer’s hand to his lips to press a kiss against it.  
“Let’s maybe do that another time,” Charlie says, his voice hoarse.  
Meyer sits up, and Charlie’s arms flop off of him. He gives Meyer a pleading look, but doesn’t say anything.  
“I don’t understand,” Meyer confesses.  
“It ain’t nothing to worry about,” Charlie shrugs.   
“You know, I have one of those,” Meyer says, pointing at Charlie’s crotch, “And I’ve touched it before.”  
Charlie smirks up at him. “That does sound interesting, tell me more.”  
“Shut up. What I mean is...”  
“I know what you mean. What _I_  mean is I don’t want to rush things.” Charlie says, moving his arms behind his head like a pillow.

Meyer nods. He still has the nagging suspicion he’s made some sort of mistake, but Charlie doesn’t look worried or embarrassed… so maybe it’s something else.   
Yetta’s words echo inside Meyer’s head, and his chest feels a little bit heavier.  
“Listen, I know there are… rules to this. Just like to everything else. But I don’t know what those rules are, and even when I do know, most of the time they make no sense to me,” Meyer says, “So if I’ve broken one of those rules, or if I’ve overstepped my boundaries...”  
Charlie perches up on his elbows as Meyer speaks, then sits up, an arm around Meyer’s waist to keep him in place. “You ain’t done nothing wrong,” he says, pressing his forehead to Meyer’s. “And you ain’t the only one who’s new to this.”  
Meyer snorts, “Which part of physical intimacy is new to _you_?”  
“The part where I care about it,” Charlie answers, “You judgmental little fuck.”

Meyer smiles in spite of himself, and the innocent kiss Charlie presses against his cheek feels the most intimate thing they’ve done so far.  
“What if I run to the grocery shop on the corner, call your mom, and tell her you’re sleeping here?” Charlie offers, snuggling against Meyer and resting his head against Meyer’s shoulder, arms tightly wrapped around his waist.   
“Some of us have to work, tomorrow.” Meyer says, curling up against Charlie.  
“Bullshit.” Charlie whispers.  
“Until our business together proves fruitful, I do need a job”  
“I’m just saying, you’re wasting your time working in a tool and die shop, with this beautiful brain you’ve got in here.” he taps the side of Meyer’s head, presses a smacking kiss against his neck, making Meyer squirm.  
“Stop that,” Meyer chuckles, “I can’t spend the night here. But I can stay a little longer.”  
“It’s still something.”  
“I would appreciate it if we moved back to the couch, though.”  
Charlie hums in acknowledgment, then squeezes Meyer tighter and gets up with him still clinging to him, then plops him on the couch.   
“I thought I told you to never do that again,” Meyer says. His tone is threatening, but he’s grinning.   
“You’re so tiny it comes natural, you can’t blame…” Charlie begins, but a pillow landing straight in his face cuts the sentence short.


End file.
